Mrs Drummond's School for Girls
by TuesdayMorning423
Summary: Mr. Darcy sends Lydia to school in the hopes of improving her character, but on the way to improvement, she might just find love. Sequel to: Wholly Unconnected to Me
1. Chapter 1

Lydia stepped off the public coach in front of Summerseat's coaching station and drew a deep breath. So many people had been crammed into the coach! She surely had not breathed since their last stop. What a horrid way to travel. Certainly not the way she had expected to be journeying. Mr. Darcy might have provided his private coach to transport her. He was rich enough for that.

How grumpy he had been and how high handed Lizzy with all her fussy warnings. What did either of them know about anything? Why did they have to intrude on her life and simply ruin it?

Them and nosy Aunt Gardiner with all her intrusive and personal questions. She shuddered. Even Mama would never ask such questions! What did Aunt Gardiner need to know about her courses or what had happened between her and Wickham in the privacy of their room?

Why had they made her leave anyway? Papa said he was moving the family back to London. So Lady Catherine's opinion hardly counted for anything, now.

She dodged away from a huffy older woman who had been crowding her the entire journey. The woman snorted and glared down her nose as she passed. Stuffy old crosspatch.

Papa had a new patron now, the Earl of Matlock. How wonderful to rub shoulders with an earl! And earl with unmarried sons was even better. But now, because of Mr. Darcy, she would never meet any of them. Papa declared he was not going to take any chances with an unruly daughter jeopardizing his new position. Oh, this was so unfair!

She wove through the stale-smelling crowd, elbowing several young men out of her way. On tip toes, she scanned the crowd. No one looked familiar and no one seemed to be looking for her. Why did they make her travel alone? Mr. Darcy should have sent a companion with her—Mama would be appalled that she traveled without one. But Papa would not pay for a maid to travel with her and now she was alone. Why did Mr. Darcy not pay for that? He should have insured ensured a companion.

Running away had seemed like a good idea at the first stop but it would have meant leaving her trunks behind. After having done that when she ran off with Wickham, she was convinced it was a bad idea.

She sank down on a rickety looking bench. It was all so cruel! Everything she had every had or known was lost to her—Wickham, her home, her friends, her sisters—and it was all Lizzy's and Darcy's fault. She might be living with them instead of heading off to this remote corner of the kingdom—by herself.

Oh, this was so very, very vexing! Someone was supposed to meet her here and take her to the school—where were they? Oh, there was the coach driver! Perhaps he knew.

She jumped up and hurried back to the coach where the driver and another man untied the ropes that held the trunks to the coach.

"Sir, excuse me, can you—"

"Out of the way girl." He grunted and shouldered her out of his path.

"But I need—"

"What you need is not my concern." He heaved the trunk to his shoulder.

How rude! He stank like a farmhand. Perhaps the other—

"You're gonna get hurt, girl. Outta the way." He trudged past, arms laden with luggage.

Oh! How could they ignore a lady like that? Did they not know that she was a gentlewoman?

She looked around. No one noticed her, no one cared. Her hands trembled and her insides knotted beneath a welling scream.

"Miss Bennet?"

She whirled so fast the world spun.

A girl slightly older than herself in a plain, drab gown stood at her shoulder.

"Yes…that is me." Lydia panted, hoping to force the world to stop moving.

"I am Miss Annabella Fitzgilbert from Mrs. Drummond's school. There is a chaise waiting outside to take us to the school."

"Oh good." At last! "What took you so long? I have been waiting simply for ages now. You should have been on time. I will tell your mistress."

The girl shook her head and smiled the same sort of smile Jane used to give her—lips pressed tight into a firm line. She was not nearly as pretty as Jane though—quite a plain thing really. And she had freckles on her nose.

"My trunks. I do not know where they are. See to them." Lydia waved her hand toward the coach and scanned the street for a handsome chaise and driver to carry her away from this nightmare.

"My name is Miss Fitzgilbert, not Abigail. I am neither your maid nor any servant at all. If you wish your trunks, you best see to them yourself."

Lydia stomped. "You cannot talk to me like that."

"I can and I did and I suggest you become accustomed to it soon as you will find whomever you think you are matters very little here."

"But—"

Miss High-and-Mighty lifted an open hand. "Stop it. I do not wish to hear. I do not care. Now attend to your trunks before they are stolen." She pointed toward the trunks piled near the public coach.

Lydia swished her skirts and hurried to the pile of luggage. She tugged her three trunks into an awkward stack.

"Is that everything?" Miss Fitzgilbert crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

"Oh, I left my bag on the coach."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Well, you best hope you can find it. I shall watch your luggage. Go, now. Quickly!"

Lydia scurried back to the coach. Oh, Miss Fitzgilbert was horrible. Who was she? What if she were one of the school mistresses? Oh, that would be dreadful indeed. What kind of place was this school? It must be awful.

There it was—tucked under the seat she had sat in. She snatched her bag and jumped down almost atop Miss Fitzgilbert.

"Hurry along now. Our driver has your things loaded. We must not keep him waiting." She grabbed Lydia's elbow and propelled her through the crowd.

She pulled her arm away. "Why does it matter? He must wait—"

"He does not work for Mrs. Drummond—this is a hack, you ninny." Miss Fitzgilbert stomped away.

What had that to do with anything? Would the chaise leave without her? Lydia ran to it.

The hack was dusty and plain and obviously worn, just like the driver. He grunted at them as Miss Fitzgilbert pushed her into a seat and climbed in after her. The chaise lurched into motion.

Soon the coaching inn was out of sight, replaced by the drab, dreary buildings of Summerseat. This place was nothing to London. Did it even have assembly rooms? How could she live without regular balls and parties?

She fell into the hard seat back. "Is it far…to the school, I mean?"

"Not very, the house is on the edge of town. We would walk except for the trunks, of course."

"Of course," Lydia murmured. Who did this girl think she was?

"You are arriving from London, but are recently from Kent, I understand." The freckles on her nose twitched when she smiled that Jane-ish smile.

Jane had sense enough not to have a freckled nose.

"Yes, my father—"

Miss Fitzgilbert turned her face away. "Do not tell me about him. Mrs. Drummond requires that we do not speak of our previous stations."

"Why ever not? That must be the stupidest thing I have ever heard."

How dare she roll her eyes! If they had not been in a moving coach, Lydia would have stormed away.

"You know why you have been sent here, do you not?"

"Because my sister is high handed and her husband very cruel indeed."

"And your loss of virtue and reputation is all their fault, I imagine?"

Lydia's cheeks heated. What did she know of that? What would she understand of such things? "Indeed it is. I would be married now apart from their interference."

Who knew that such an unladylike snort could explode from such a prim little thing?

"If you are as other girls here, you should count your good fortune not to be married right now. He was probably a scoundrel—a blackguard of the worst sort."

"How would you know?"

"You think yourself unique? Let me assure you, you are not. Every one of us shares a similar tale of virtue lost and not one of the men in question has been worthy of the moniker 'gentleman'."

"You do not know—"

"I do not need to. Every girl who comes to this school has virtually the same story. Any man who would put you in position to be sent here, is no gentlemen."

Lydia tossed her head and sniffed. "Well, you are simply wrong. I am not like any of the others."

"I have heard that too." Miss Fitzgilbert squeezed her temples. Now she was looking like Lizzy. "Some of us have come to appreciate our own folly and are grateful for the intervention of Mrs. Drummond, that our future is much preserved by our attendance here."

And sounding like her as well.

"And there are those who do not. I think you might be that sort. Have it as you will. But those of us she has helped have little patience with those too good to come to their senses and recognize their good fortune."

What a dreadful sort of superiority she displayed, one Lydia could easily do without.

The carriage pulled up a long drive to a large old house set off the road. The sign in front read: _Summerseat Abbey_ and in smaller letters _Girl's Seminary_.

Covered in dark vines, the building might have been cheerful in the spring when everything was green and blooming. But with autumn's approach, everything was drying brown and crunchy. Messy looking and imposing. Who would want to go into such a grumpy sort of building? Was everyone there as disagreeable as the edifice? If Miss Fitzgilbert was any indication, they were.

When might she go home?

Miss Fitzgilbert jumped down from the chaise, smiling as though this were the most wonderful place she knew. Proof indeed she was a fool.

Lydia stepped down lest the bossy girl pull her out by force.

"Do not dawdle! Miss Drummond waits for you." She beckoned forcefully and led Lydia inside.

The foyer was unremarkable and she passed through it all too quickly to note anything before they arrived at a closed oak door upon which Miss Fitzgilbert knocked thrice.

"You may enter." The voice was old—not old and frail, but old and bossy like Lady Catherine's had been. Lydia shivered.

The room was polished and tidy and so proper it might cry out in pain if one breathed wrong. Dreadful place. The woman behind the desk matched the room, starched and stiff. The curls peaking beneath her mob cap might have been lacquered in place and her tiny eyes flashed like jet beads. Was there anyone more formed by nature to be a harsh school mistress?

"Miss Lydia Bennet?"

"Yes, madam," she curtsied, knees quaking. Compared to this harridan, Aunt Gardiner was positively gracious.

"You may sit." She pointed at a hard chair. "Miss Fitzgilbert, please see her things are taken to Miss Morley's room."

"Yes, madam." She curtsied and left, closing the door behind her. If only Lydia had such good fortune, too.

The room was so quiet. Was it possible to hear someone blink?

Mrs. Drummond blinked very loudly. "I suppose you think you have been sent to me because your benefactors wish to spoil your fun and care little for you."

Why did it sound so awful when she said it? Lydia stammered sounds that refused to shape into words.

"I thought as much." She drummed her fingers along her brightly polished desk. Not a paper out of place, nor bit of dust marring the surface. "So we may add ungrateful to your list of sins."

"My…my ...list of what?" Lydia's eyes grew wide.

"I cannot say I am surprised at all. It does seem to be the way of young people now to be utterly insensible to their blessings." She pushed her glassed up higher on her nose.

"My blessings?" What did she know?

"You are sitting there, feeling sorry for yourself because you are away from home, family and friends, and I suppose your paramour as well."

"I…I…I suppose." She made it sound as bad as Miss Fitzgilbert had. What was so wrong with missing the things and people she wanted?

"Have you forgotten your father has cast you out? You have no home."

"That is not true." She slammed her hands on the arms of her chair.

"I am afraid it is. You can see it in his own hand. We are not to send you back to him if you violate our rules."

"But…but..."

Mrs. Drummond shoved a piece of paper at her. Lined with Papa's thin spidery letters, it stated he would not pay for travel expenses and his door would be locked to her. "He cannot mean that!"

"I cannot judge what he does or does not mean. I can only read what he has written."

Lydia's face grew cold. "I am his daughter. He cannot turn me out."

"Again, Miss Bennet, I can only follow the instructions I am sent."

He had allowed Lizzy to be taken away without so much as a word of protest. But Lizzy was so…so…entirely different from her. It could not be the same.

"But my sisters, they surely will not abandon me. Jane and Mary are to be married…"

"It will be their husbands who decide if you are received in their homes or not. Do you believe—"

"Jane will, surely she will." She clutched the unyielding wood of the chair, heart racing. She had heard Mr. Bingley was willing to take Lizzy into his home. Surely he would take her, would he not?

"Perhaps that is true, but unless you have means to travel to her yourself, this is where you shall stay until you are sent for."

"No, that cannot be. There must be some way for me to leave if…if…"

"You may see your benefactor's letter to me."

"Stop calling him that! It is his fault—"

"That you are not married?"

"Yes, exactly. I should be mistress of my own home right now, not here in some horrid school for girls."

"Then you are free to go." Mrs. Drummond gestured to the door, her voice as calm and level as it had been when Lydia first walked in.

Cruel woman, she had no feelings!

"But you just told me I have no where to go."

"That is neither my fault nor my problem."

"I have no money."

"Similarly, not my concern."

"But Mr. Darcy paid you—"

"To take you as a student. If you leave my establishment now, I will return that money to him. In any case, that sum is not yours nor has it ever been." She met Lydia's gaze with a steely glare not entirely unlike the one Lady Catherine often employed.

Lydia rose and paced around the room. Even Rosings Park with all the stuffiness and Lady Catherine's rules of etiquette had been better than—

"So, Miss Bennet, will you be staying?"

She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist. "I have no choice."

"Yes you do—you always have a choice. Perhaps you do not prefer the alternatives, but you are making a choice."

Lydia harrumphed. "I will stay—for now."

"Do not make the mistake of thinking your presence is any boon to me, it is not. In fact, it is to my advantage that you do leave after tomorrow. My agreement reads that no moneys will be returned after the first night in my care. I have sufficient applications for positions with me that it would not be a week before I would have another girl in your place. So feel free to go, I will have no harm from it. Your family knows what a difficult, disagreeable child you are and it will be no reflection on my school. Realize, though, no one from the school will go after you, if you run away. I will, of course, send a letter to your father and benefactor and they may mount efforts for your recovery, if they so choose. But you will not be permitted within these walls again."

"I cannot believe—"

"That is what happened to the girl whose place you are taking."

"No, surely, you –"

"Yes, and as she was the daughter of a viscount."

Lydia clutched the back of the nearest chair.

"If you mean to stay, sit down. Otherwise, you know the way out."

Knees trembling, Lydia perched on the hard chair. This woman was utterly insensible of her plight.

"You have made a wise choice, Miss Bennet. The first in what I hope will be a long series of wise choices. Now, let me acquaint you with our ways here."

Lydia gulped.

"All of your fellow students are like you, gently bred females who do not deserve the title of lady. Every one of you has given her virtue and her good reputation away. In that, you are all equals. You are also blessed with someone who cares enough to try and restore you to some level of decency and thereby offer you a future you do not deserve."

"But…but I am—"

"I do not care, Miss Bennet. No one here does. Most of the girls here come from positions much higher than yours. Your standing in society is utterly meaningless to anyone here. By your actions, you treated it as meaningless, so we shall do likewise."

"My actions?"

"Need I remind you?"

If only she had been allowed to marry! She would be the guest of honor at balls and parties and would be serving tea in her own parlor right now. Some day she would pay Mr. Darcy back for what he had done to her.

"Our first rule is that students neither refer to their rank nor their family's status. Special privilege here exists to those who earn it. You will be treated as you deserve—not as you believe you deserve. Do I make myself clear?"

"Y…yes madam."

"I do not enforce many rules with my cane, Miss Bennet, but this one I do and the peer and gentlewomen shall partake of it alike. I offer no warnings, no second chances on this point. If you are in violation of this directive, you will be punished."

"But I have never—"

Mrs. Drummond flashed a brief, strained smile that might have cracked her face had she held it any longer. "Shame that, it might have kept you from your current dilemma. Nonetheless, you will be treated no differently from the others. You will not be the only girl who received her first licks of the cane by my hand."

Lydia blinked rapidly, eyes burning. What a horrid woman.

"Do not look so distressed, Miss Bennet. It is entirely under your control. If you do not wish to be caned, you merely need obey the rule."

"Yes, madam."

"Now for the rest, while we intend to provide you with the necessary accomplishments for a young lady, we also, due to your circumstances, find it necessary to add additional components to your education. As it is quite possible you will fail to improve, we wish to ensure you are familiar with the skills and options that will be open to you."

"Options?"

"A life of service, and possibly poverty—but hopefully not crime."

She considered those options? "What are you saying?"

"Every morning, you shall rise and see your room properly tended to. Then you shall report downstairs. We keep only a minimal staff, so you shall be assigned to one of them to assist in her chores."

"I am to be a maid?"

"Perhaps when you leave here, you will. I do not know. Regardless, you should have the skills, either to use for gainful employment or to understand the running of a household in preparation for managing your own."

Daft—that was the only possible explanation for this conversation. Mrs. Drummond was daft.

"I have not—that is I do not know—"

"I expected as much. My staff has trained many ignorant girls. Following chores you will report for breakfast, then lessons. Reading, writing and drawing are taught on Monday and Wednesday. Arithmetic, geography and French on Tuesdays and Fridays. Thursday brings the music master and on Saturdays the dance master comes. I expect diligent application to your work. You might not be a scholar, but all my girls can and will work hard."

Lydia squeaked.

"After a brief respite for luncheon, we will engage in our charitable efforts."

"Charitable efforts?"

"On Mondays, we visit the foundling home. Tuesdays, we bring succor to the women in gaol. Thursdays, we bring lessons to the children of the work house, and Fridays, we visit the parish alms houses to assist the unfortunates living there. Wednesdays and Saturdays, we sew and mend garments for those in need as well as anything that needs mending in the house."

"Is there no free time?" No balls or parties or morning calls?

"Since you have made very poor choices during idle time, Miss Bennet, I see little need for it. Still half a day Sunday, after holy services, will be allowed for rest."

What kind of a place had she been condemned to?

"Do you still wish to stay? You may leave at any time; just remember, my door will not be open to you again." Mrs. Drummond gestured toward the door, the same uninterested expression on her weathered face.

"I…I will stay."

She rose, but barely stood as high as Lydia's shoulder. It was probably a good thing, for had she been any taller, she would have been unbearable.

"Follow me then, I will show you to your room. You will share Miss Morely's room. She will become your elder sister here and help you settle in."

Their shoes clattered on the hard wooden steps, clean, but scuffed by many footsteps. The banister was worn smooth by many hands. Were they all as shaky and miserable as hers?

A sister sounded nice, one like Jane who would be sympathetic and help her, maybe even protect her from the cruelty of Mrs. Drummond. Oh, please let Miss Morley be like Jane!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The house was larger than any she had ever lived in—but certainly nothing to Rosings Park. But it had little decoration and what furnishings she could see were quite plain and worn. They may as well have sent her to a workhouse.

"We have twelve pupils including yourself at present. All the students are in the east wing of the house. The teachers and I are quartered in the west wing. You are not to go there, unless in company of one of the staff. Neither are you to enter another student's room, except that you are invited by both the room's residents."

Lydia gulped. She had never been forbidden in so many places all at once. Was she to be welcome anywhere?

Mrs. Drummond paused and pointed. "There are the school room and the music room, both of which you will have free use of. Downstairs, the morning room and back parlor are for students. The drawing room is not, unless you are receiving a visit from someone outside the school, which I think highly unlikely. My study is likewise forbidden unless I have called you there."

Why would she ever want to go there otherwise?

Mrs. Drummond continued on her way. "The dining room is for meals. No trays will be sent to your room unless there is verifiable illness. Unless it is mealtime or you are doing chores there, stay out of the dining room and the kitchen, as well. Meals are served promptly and if you are late without acceptable reason, you will not be admitted."

How surprising—Mrs. Drummond would allow her to go hungry. She seemed the type to starve young ladies.

"This is your room." She pointed to an open door on the left side of the hall.

Lydia peeked in. The chamber was bright and tidy, but with little color. The walls were plain and white with only a few pencil drawings and the odd magazine fashion plate pinned up. What a wonder Mrs. Drummond allowed such a luxury!

Two small beds filled most of the room, neatly made with plain, sturdy coverings. The edges of a thick wool blanket peeked out from the edges—perhaps she might not freeze.

A dressing table with a small mirror, a small chair and writing table near the window, and a chest near the closet completed the furnishings. Even the room she had shared with Kitty, though no larger, had been much better appointed than this drab little cell.

"The room is not to your liking?" Mrs. Drummond glared every bit as imperiously as Lady Catherine might have.

"No .., not …, it is…"

"Better than you deserve. I hope you will come to understand that soon." She strode to the pile of trunks near the window. "Now, show me what you have brought and we shall determine what is appropriate for your station as a student here and if there is anything else you might need."

Now her trunks were to be searched? Would the humiliation never end?

"Do not dawdle girl! You are not my only concern today." She clapped sharply. "Move along now."

Lydia jumped and scurried to her trunks. The first held her body linen, stockings, night dresses and dressing gown. Mrs. Drummond inspected every one of the pieces Jane and Aunt Gardiner had carefully packed.

"Serviceable and appropriate. You are fortunate to have been provided with so much. Fold them and put them in the bottom drawers of the dresser." She handed over a chemise with a pretty lace trim along the edge.

Lydia laid it on the bed and folded it into quarters.

"Not like that."

Of course. But what could she expect? She had folded little linen in her home. That was a servant's job.

"I see we must begin at the beginning with you. Your mother truly did you a disservice. I hope you are quick to learn. Watch." Mrs. Drummond smoothed the linen garment and drew it up into neat, regular folds that no doubt would fit perfectly into the drawer. "Understand?"

Lydia nodded.

Mrs. Drummond shook it out. "Now you."

Lydia's hands quaked as she tried to force the stubborn linen into the required shapes.

"Better," Mrs. Drummond flicked the chemise in the air, shaking out all her efforts.

No! That was unkind!

"Again."

Three more attempts and the chemise was finally accepted.

"Now this." A petticoat took the place of the chemise.

Lydia attempted to groan, but a raised eyebrow from Mrs. Drummond stopped her cold. The harridan would probably not hesitate to beat her for a badly folded petticoat.

It took five attempts to please her captor with a properly creased one.

"Finish the rest of your things. I will examine your gowns. Have you brought any wraps?"

"The…the larger trunk has the gowns and the other has wraps and warm things." She would probably take her nicest frocks away and leave her with only a single dress. Her eyes blurred, but she blinked fiercely. She would not give Mrs. Drummond the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

A pile of body linen appeared on the bed. Lydia turned her back to the trunks. Watching would only make it worse.

"Day dress, day dress, morning, walking. Whomever packed for you saw you were well equipped. This," she walked to Lydia and held up a white muslin dinner dress, Lydia's favorite garment and the only truly pretty thing stuffy Aunt Gardiner had allowed her to bring. "Is the only thing you have little need of. We do not dress for dinner here."

She held her breath and fought the urge to snatch the dress away.

"But I shall allow you to keep it, for there is the rare occasion it may be appropriate."

"Thank you." She took the dress with trembling hands. Mrs. Drummond would probably not approve if she clutched it to her chest.

Mrs. Drummond carefully laid out her dresses on the end of the bed. "Put these in the closet when you have finished the linens. Now for the rest." She opened the final trunk and laid out the shawls, bonnets, gloves, spencers and shoes.

A flash of red! What was that? Lydia whirled. Her red cloak—the one her Wickham had bought her.

A sob welled in her throat. She stuffed her fist in her mouth, but it was not enough to contain the despair of the day. She sank into the thin carpet, fighting to silence the cries that wracked her chest.

A warm hand soothed her back. "There, there now girl. It has been a trying time for you no doubt. Let yourself have a good solid cry and you will feel much better for it."

She could not have done otherwise had she been a mind to. Gut wrenching sobs tore through her. All the while, Mrs. Drummond crouched beside her, hand on her shoulder, muttering soothing sounds.

At last, she hiccupped and lifted her head. Mrs. Drummond pressed a handkerchief into her hand. "Dry your eyes now and we will finish settling you in."

Lydia folded linen while Mrs. Drummond arranged her things in the closet.

"I will leave you to finish the rest on your own. The girls will be returning soon and I shall tell Miss Morley of your arrival."

Lydia sniffled. "Yes, madam."

She pulled something white and fluffy out of her pocket. "One final thing. Put this on. All our new girls are required to wear one."

"A mob cap?"

"You will have no maid to do your hair. Best you are not distracted by what it looks like as you learn your place in our little society."

"Miss Fitzgilbert did not wear one."

"She did when she first came. She earned the privilege to remove it. In time, you might as well. I very much hope that will be the case." Mrs. Drummond nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

Horrid woman! Lydia threw the cap at the door, but it floated daintily to the floor, well short of its intended target.

Dreadful, awful, terrible place! She kicked the cap. How could Mrs. Drummond demand she wear such a thing—to dress as a servant, or worse, as though she were on the shelf? She was only seventeen—she was not a spinster, and she would not be one either. But how could she find a husband when she was confined to this…this asylum?

Two years, Mr. Darcy said, two years—that was nearly forever. But he said he wanted to see improvement. If she 'improved', perhaps he might commute her sentence. Mrs. Drummond might write him of her virtues and he would instruct Mrs. Drummond to release her.

It would take a great deal of effort to make Mrs. Drummond think her improved, but with no money, nor any suitor to support her, it was her only choice. The key question was, though, what did improvement mean?

She snatched the cap off the floor. She would wear the stupid thing, slave like a servant over chores, study her lessons and make charitable visits with a smile. That should be enough. Enough to convince Mrs. Drummond anyway, the stupid old bat. In fact, she would perform so well perhaps she would see her freedom in just six months. She might not be as clever as Lizzy, but she was determined and that should count for even more.

She folded the remainder of her linen with great care. Mrs. Drummond would probably be writing letters to Mr. Darcy about the state of her drawers even today. Gah!

A sharp rap on the door made her jump. The door opened and Miss High-and-Mighty Fitzgilbert poked her head in.

"Are you unpacked now?"

"I…yes…"

"Good. I am to help you take your trunks to the attic, then we may go down for dinner."

Where were the servants to do such work? She bit her tongue. Miss Fitzgilbert would probably report any complaints to Mrs. Drummond. "Very good."

Miss Fitzgilbert cocked her head and lifted her eyebrow. Why did she have to look so very much like Lizzy?

The attics were surprisingly airy and tidy and their task was completed in short order.

"The house is so quiet." Lydia muttered, fighting to keep her steps quiet on the stairs.

"Do not become accustomed to it. With so many young ladies in residence, that is rarely the case."

"Then why—"

"Did you not notice? Everyone has been out. You really must begin paying attention to something beyond yourself."

Perhaps someone should tell her more of what was going on. It was, after all, only her first day there. How was she to know what to attend to? She clamped her jaws very tightly.

"Where have they all gone?"

"Usually, we would be visiting the alms houses, but once in a while, the vicar's wife invites all of us to tea. I had to miss out because of your arrival."

No wonder she was in so foul a temper. What had she done to be punished by missing such a treat and why did Lydia deserve to be punished right along with her by enduring her ill-temper?

"Do you hear that—they are returning. Come along—you can be introduced in the parlor before dinner."

If they were all as bossy as Miss High-and-Mighty, she would just as soon keep to herself. But Miss Fitzgilbert had been punished by missing the tea, perhaps because she was so disagreeable. It was entirely possibly that there were some merry girls awaiting her downstairs. She brushed the dust from her hands and hurried downstairs.

Soft voices and the sounds of moving bodies filtered through the hallway. Miss Fitzgilbert paused at a doorway, looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. Could she not take pity on Lydia's poor nerves?

Lydia peeked into the parlor, full of young ladies, most sporting ugly mob caps like hers. A hard hand on her back shoved her inside. Lydia nearly tripped over the edge of the rug.

The noise in the room stilled and Lydia felt every gaze turn to her. Reflex dropped her into an unsteady curtsey. From the corner of the room, Mrs. Drummond nodded, though her severe features bore no evidence of approval. Two women sat beside her. Those must be the other teachers.

Mrs. Drummond stood. "Our new student has arrived. May I present Miss Lydia Bennet."

"Good afternoon, Miss Bennet." The entire room responded.

Lydia curtsied again. What else was one to do in such an awkward circumstance?

The woman to Mrs. Drummond's right stood. The heavy chatelaine at her waist clattered. She must have every key to every lock in the school on her chains. Just like a jailor. Lydia shuddered. Did she lock the students in their rooms every night?

"Miss Honeywell teaches sewing, writing and drawing for our school."

Miss Honeywell's round face sported the closest thing to a smile she had seen since she had arrived.

"Have you had any instruction in my subjects, Miss Bennet?"

"A little."

"And you have practiced?" Her voice high and sweet, not nearly so awe inspiring as Mrs. Drummond's.

"Not very much."

"I feared as much." Miss Honeywell sat down with a sigh. She folded her hands in her lap, a mild look of disappointment on her face.

Crosspatch!

The other woman stood, the tallest, most gaunt of the three. Her hollow cheeks and prominent collarbone lent her a skeletal air that did not improve with her thin raspy voice. "I am Miss Thornton and I guide my students in reading, geography and sums." She sat down, not seeming to care for Lydia's potential accomplishments. Just as well, because there were not more in Miss Thorton's subjects than in Miss Honeywell's.

"Dinner is ready. You may introduce yourselves at the table." Mrs. Drummond led the teachers out.

So they would be permitted conversation at dinner. Happy thought indeed.

Miss Fitzgilbert led the students out, capless girls leading the way. Lydia hung back. Though it was fitting for a newcomer to lead the procession to the dining room, somehow it did not seem to be a good idea to insist upon it now.

The last two girls in the room looked at her.

"I am Joan Colbrane." The blonde girl with a beauty mark on her cheek said.

"And I am Amelia Easton." The dark haired girl with a foreign look about her curtsied.

"You can sit with us." Miss Colbrane took her arm.

"The dining room is this way." Miss Easton led them.

Miss Colbrane lifted her head, nose in the air. "We are the lowest—"

"I thought there was no talk of rank here."

"Not rank in society you silly thing, rank in the school," Miss Colbrane said.

"When you are a good little girl and do everything as Missus says you should, you move up in rank. The highest girls are permitted to style their hair with no cap." Miss Easton touched her own mob cap.

"They are dreadful things, are they not?" Lydia whispered.

"Horrid, absolutely horrid." Miss Colbrane tittered.

"I hate it, walking around like a servant or old tabby." Miss Easton shuddered.

"Hurry, they are waiting!" Miss Colbrane dragged Lydia into the dining room and propelled her toward a chair at the center of the long table, the most ignoble spot in the room.

Lydia nearly stumbled, but caught herself on the back of the chair. She nearly sat down, but Miss Easton hissed at her. Oh botheration, no one else sat. She pulled herself to stand beside the table.

Mrs. Drummond nodded. She and Miss Thorton at the head of the table and Miss Honeywell and Miss Fitzgilbert at the foot sat down. The students followed suit.

How odd, two seats, one at Mrs. Drummond's left and one near the foot of the table remained vacant.

Miss Easton handed her a bowl of roasted potatoes. "Serve yourself ,dear; we have no footmen or gentlemen to do the job. Do it quickly and pass the plate. None of us like to wait."

She dumped a spoonful on her plate and handed it to Miss Colbrane.

"The food here is decent enough." Miss Colbrane whispered.

"Mercy that it is, you know." Miss Easton handed her a dish of peas and lettuce.

"We work hard enough most days. I dare say we would starve to death quite easily if it were not for the cooking here."

"But do not be late for meals. Missus does not tolerate that. You come late, you do not get food at all." Miss Easton

"How cruel! Is that why those seats are empty?"

"The one by Missus is odd indeed. I do not know why Miss Long has moved down. She is not wearing a cap, though, so she cannot have fallen too far from favor. The other is Juliana Morley's seat. She has special permission to be late on Fridays. She is the only one." Miss Easton cast a knowing look at Miss Colbrane.

"Why?"

"You will see." Miss Eason smirked.

Lydia chewed the inside of her cheek. "You do not like her? I am to share a room with her."

"You poor dear." Miss Colbrane patted her arm.

"You may come visit in our room whenever you like."

"Is she so very terrible?"

"Oh, not at all. Dear little Juliana is very, very good. She is the sweetest, nicest, kindest girl among us." Miss Colbrane batted her eyes.

"I do not understand."

"You will." Miss Easton handed her a bowl of oat pudding.

It plopped wetly on her plate. Her stomach churned. Just her foul luck to have a horrid roommate who was some favorite to Mrs. Drummond. She would probably be some sort of moralizing tell-all who bent the headmistress' ear with reports on all her fellows. Why could she not share with gay companions like Miss Colbrane and Miss Easton.

Mrs. Drummond rang a small crystal bell and the room stilled. "You have all noticed an extra place at our table tonight. Tonight, we welcome a new member of our staff. Come in please." She looked over her shoulder and beckoned to someone just beyond the doorway.

A lean, almost awkward young man, all elbows and knees, pale skin and a shock of black hair ambled in. His face was very plain, not worthy of note at all, except for his eyes which were a rich, deep, vibrant blue. He stopped beside Mrs. Drummond.

"Mr. Amberson has taken the position as our music master."

"Old Mr. Clearly died last month." Miss Colbrane whispered.

"He will teach you on Fridays and take other students from the village the rest of the week. He is my nephew and shall take the room across the hall from mine. The staff shall manage the maintenance of his rooms without your assistance. Any of you found in his quarters will be dismissed from school immediately. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Mrs. Drummond."

"Oh, she is horrible." Lydia muttered.

"He's probably a gentleman of good reputation but little fortune. His dearest aunt does not want us tainting him." Miss Easton snickered behind her hand.

Mr. Amberson bowed and stammered. "A pleasure to make your acquaintances. After dinner tonight, I should like all of you to play for me that I might take a measure of your proficiency." He sat down beside Mrs. Drummond.

Awkwardness descended upon the room like a summer thunderstorm. A few girls basked in the news: two girls in caps, Miss Fitzgilbert and Miss Long. Obviously, they were proficient and happy to show off for their new master.

The rest looked aside or squirmed in their seats. The awkward, ginger-pate across from Lydia sniffled and blotted her eyes with the back of her hand.

"That is Emma Greenville." Miss Easton rolled her eyes. "She is quite the dunce at music. Made Old Clearly ever so cross. He would always cane her hands when she fumbled but it made no difference. She plays no better now than before. We think it was her playing what gave him the apoplexy that killed him."

"I bet she will fall into a grand swoon or have a hysterical fit to get out of playing."

"I think not—remember what Missus did to the last girl who had a fit?" Miss Easton turned to Lydia. "Let us just say we do not recommend it."

"I …I will keep that in mind." Papa had little tolerance for hysterical fits in his own daughters. Though he was happy to treat them in other families. "Do you think he will be so terribly strict?"

Miss Colbrane shrugged. "There is no way of knowing. But he is young and that is to our material advantage."

"I have heard that they grow stricter with age and bad pupils. Perhaps we might be very lucky and he might fall in love with one of us." Miss Easton giggled.

"Do not let Old Lady Drummond hear you say that. I wager she would cane us for the very thought!"

"Does she do that often?" Lydia

Miss Colburn shrugged. "Not so much—"

"Not so much! Do not fabricate tales to make her feel better. It happens most every day I should say. There is a reason why the chairs in the dining room are padded."

Lydia shuddered.

Miss Colbrane leaned in close. "Do not listen to her. She is a dreadful tease."

Perhaps, but Mrs. Drummond did look ever so mean—just the type who would take great pleasure in punishing a girl for almost no reason at all. How would she ever survive?

Miss Easton elbowed her. "Do not fear, you will get used to it. It is not so bad after the first eight or ten times."

"Stop being so mean!" Miss Colbrane hissed.

"Oh, look!" Miss Easton sat up very straight and twitched her head in the direction of the door.

A young woman in a dull grey dress, cap, and apron waddled in and made her way to the remaining open chair. Her face was pudgy-round and she was very fat.

"That is Juliana Morley."

What joy was hers. She had the ugliest girl in the school for her roommate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Julianna kept to herself and ate little during dinner. Mrs. Drummond must have her on some sort of restrictions. There was no way she could have become so fat eating the way she did now, not even partaking in the sweet course when it arrived.

The pleasant thing was that left more of the sweets for the rest of them. At least something was in her favor today. The pies were better than she had had at home. The cook in Kent made terrible pastry.

Mrs. Drummond signaled dinner was over. She and the teachers led them to the parlor. Miss Greenville tried to hang back, to walk behind even Lydia, but Mrs. Drummond noticed and insisted she take her proper place near the head of the line. Did their headmistress miss nothing under her command?

Mama had never been a particularly watchful woman. A gay story or delightful bit of gossip distracted her easily enough. Why not make the most of such good fortune? Lydia used her mother's peculiarity to her advantage and rarely had to give account for anything. Somehow it did not appear that tactic would be nearly so effective with Mrs. Drummond.

In the parlor, the girls followed their teachers and gathered around the piano forte. Those Lydia presumed proficient beamed with looks of smug satisfaction, obviously expecting praises and petting from Mr. Amberson.

Haughty little chits. He might be the only man in their midst, but he was too plain to be worth the effort of impressing.

Most of the rest appeared mildly disinterested while Miss Greenville sniffled and averted her gaze.

"Miss Fitzgilbert, as head girl, you shall begin." Mrs. Drummond pointed at the piano seat.

The girls shuffled to make way for Miss High and Mighty. Oh, that vile, smug look on her face should really be removed. Perhaps her fingers would tangle over the chords. That would serve her right.

"Do you need to find music or do you know a piece to play?" Mr. Amberson asked.

"May I play one that I know?" She sat down, head bowed. What a good play she made at looking humble.

Lydia caught herself just before she rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose. Joan elbowed her a moment later. Confound it, if she were that obvious, Mrs. Drummond might have seen her as well. She would have to be far more careful lest she incur the headmistress's ire.

"Certainly, I am interested to hear what you know." Mr. Amberson stood slightly behind Miss Fitzgilbert. He clasped his hands before him and closed his eyes.

She began to play, so softly at first it was difficult to tell she had begun. The music surged in undulating swells, filling the room with liquid sound that ebbed and flowed from gentle ripples to pounding thunderous waves and back again.

For all her disagreeable qualities, Miss Fitzgilbert was indeed a proficient. Even Miss Bingley would have conceded that.

Miss Greenville was called upon to play next. Poor girl, to have to follow such a performance! Her pale complexion was blotchy and her eyes full of tears. A true shame indeed-for when one was a ginger, tears hardly improved one's looks.

"I cannot sir," she mumbled standing beside the piano bench. "You may as well just cane my hands now as Mr. Clearly did." She extended trembling hands and squeezed her eyes shut.

Mr. Amberson blanched and turned wide-eyed to Mrs. Drummond.

"I do not think that necessary. No, not at all." He reached for a portfolio beside the piano and pulled out a sheet of music. "Now, sit down."

She perched on the seat like a bird ready to take flight. He pulled an armless chair in beside her.

"Do you know what this is?" He pointed to the music.

"A notes, sir." Her voice trembled.

Lydia held her breath. Somehow, it did not seem a laugh would be welcome right now. Amelia and Joan appeared to do the same. How ridiculous could Miss Greenville be?

"What kind of note?" he asked.

"A whole note?"

"Good. Do you know which whole note this might be? What would a musician name it?"

"No, sir. I have no idea."

He studied her face. "Were you not taught?"

She squeezed her eyes shut and gasped something like a sob. "No…no sir. Mr. Clearly said a girl of…of my advantages should already know and he would not…not indulge my demands for special treatment…" She dragged her sleeve across her face.

"I see." He face grew very dark. "And had you any musical instruction prior to coming here?"

"The guitar, sir."

"Very well." He rose.

Miss Greenville cringed.

Heavens, what did she expect?. What was he going to do?

Mr. Amberson disappeared though the door and the room erupted into whispers and shuffling. Miss Fitzgilbert handed Miss Greenville a handkerchief and laid her hand on the nearly sobbing girl's shoulder.

Mr. Amberson burst into the room carrying a large leather case. He placed it on top of the piano and withdrew a beautifully polished guitar.

Miss Greenville's eyes grew so wide they might have fallen out of their sockets.

He plucked the strings and fiddled with the tuning keys. "There, that is right now. Play for me."

Miss Greenville took the instrument and stroked it almost reverently. "It is beautiful. I have never seen one so fine." She whispered, arranging the guitar on her lap.

She strummed one chord tentatively, the next with greater purpose and a third with an air of confidence and decision. With two nods, Miss Greenville transformed from pathetic to proficient as a melody, as complex and compelling as Miss Fitzgilbert had played, filled the room.

Around the parlor, expressions changed from sympathetic or scornful to astonished.

Miss Greenville finished and handed the guitar back to Mr. Amberson.

"I imagine Mr. Clearly thought the pianoforte the only instrument worth learning." He said.

"Yes, sir. I…I mentioned once…and he said he would…would…"

"I understand." He glared at Mrs. Drummond.

He dared glower at her? Someone actually challenged the harpy in her lair! Lydia snuck a peak at Joan who hid a smirk behind her hand.

"I bear no such preconceptions. I brought a practice instrument with me. I shall place it in the music room. We shall continue your lessons on the guitar as we being your training on the pianoforte from the beginning."

Miss Greenville rose and dipped in a fragile curtsey. "Thank you so very much, sir."

He nodded and gestured for the next girl to take her place.

He was not effusive with his compliments, but neither was he quick with criticism. No disappointment crossed his face when girls fumbled over their music, only the same patient nod and injunction to perform their best.

Was it possible—a patient music master? Had ever such a creature been born?

Lydia's belly fluttered as her turn came.

How humiliating to be the very last one. Everyone would watch and remember her performance. It was too cruel for the first day.

"Have you had any instruction, Miss Bennet?" he asked.

"A little."

"How little?"

"We saw a music master for a year, I think."

"Then try to play this for me." He placed a sheet of music in front of her.

Lydia bit her lip. That piece—her old music master had tried to make her learn it. But it was somber and dull and difficult with all the sharps and flats. How she had hated it!

"Play Miss Bennet." How stern he sounded. Where was the kindness he had shown Miss Greenville?

She forced her fingers across the keys, pausing to stare at the music and start over each measure she fudged. By the time she finished the meager five lines of music, sweat beaded her upper lip and her shoulders were so knotted she could barely move.

"And in that time, were you apt to practice?"

He asked, lips pressed into formidable lines.

She dropped her chin to her chest. "Not very much, sir."

"It shows, Miss. It shows. You have the potential to play very well indeed, if you only discipline yourself to practice." He glanced over the girls. "I am a very patient man and I think you will find we get on very well in our lessons. There is one thing, though, that I have very little tolerance for, and that is laziness. Not all of you are musical. I cannot change the gifts of Providence. Not all of you will be masters of the art, but there is not one among you who cannot improve herself by diligent application and instruction. I expect improvement from all of you." He gaze fell upon Lydia.

She turned her face aside and struggled not to fidget. Why did he single her out so? He was every bit as disagreeable as his horrid aunt.

On Mrs. Drummond's insistence, Mr. Amberson played for them. He was, of course, very good, both on the piano and the guitar. And he sang. His voice was wonderful. It would have been far more wonderful had he not been so much like the headmistress, though.

He promised to teach them all singing too, then left their company for the evening.

Mrs. Drummond permitted them a quarter of an hour to talk and otherwise amuse themselves, then herded them off to bed, like a nasty little dog chasing lambs into a pen.

Lydia climbed the stairs with Joan and Amelia.

"I think I shall like music lessons now." Joan said, "Mr. Amberson is ever so much nicer—"

"—and better looking—" Amelia tittered.

"—than Mr. Clearly."

"I wonder if he is sympathetic to gingers. He certainly favored Miss Greenville." Amelia's upper lip curled into the barest hit of a sneer.

"He was very kind to her, especially seeing how upset he was," Lydia said.

"Too kind if you ask me." Amelia whispered. "I do not think I trust him—why should he be like that if he did not have some dark plan in mind?"

"Dark plan?" Lydia gasped.

Amelia leaned in close and whispered in her ear. "Seductions."

Lydia stumbled on the next stair.

"Do not go off on your flights of fancy, again." Joan hissed. "Pay no attention to her. She sees seducers everywhere and not once has she been right."

"How would you know? Just because Old Clearly could not bring it up does not mean—"

"And how would you know about his—"

"No, I didn't. But I heard from the girl at the grocer that she had heard from his scullery maid that his wife said—"

"Enough chatter. To your room now." Mrs. Drummond nipped at their heels and drove Lydia to her dismal little room.

Two candles lit the room, one near each bed. Mrs. Drummond shut the door behind her and the two girls stared at each other.

"It is nice to meet you, Lydia." Juliana tried to curtsey, but it was an ugly awkward thing to watch. "I am glad you will be sharing my room. It has been lonely since Constance left."

Would that fat, ugly girl stop talking, so she could go to sleep and perhaps forget her horrid fate for a few moments? "Has she been gone long?" Lydia turned her back and began her toilette.

"A few weeks. We were not very good friends, you know. But still, I think company a nicer thing than not." Juliana waddled to the drawers and pulled out a night dress. She untied the fall front of her gown and pulled it over her head. "I know it is a great deal to ask, but would you help me with my stays?"

Now she was to be a lady's maid, too? Lydia turned, but her curt reply faded on her tongue. Juliana wore old fashioned long stays, encasing her body like a sausage.

"I know they are old and ugly, but they are all I have."

"You father sent you here with only those disagreeable old things? Are the rest of your clothes rags?"

Juliana bit her lip, eyes downcast and shrugged.

Even if Juliana was fat and ugly, that was too cruel. At least Papa and Mr. Darcy had made sure she had decent clothes with her. "I will help you."

She shambled toward Lydia and they met in the middle of the room.

Lydia fumbled with the knots. "You do not have these laced very tight. You know if you—"

"The midwife says I must not—"

"Midwife?"

Juliana wrestled the stays off and turned to face Lydia, one hand on her very pregnant belly.

"Oh!"

"I am surprised one of the others did not tell you. I serve the midwife on Saturdays."

"Whatever for?"

"That is how I am paying her for her services. Each Saturday, I go to her in the morning and help her with whatever she needs, then she bleeds me—" Juliana touched the bandage on her elbow.

"Bleeds you? Why?"

"What do you mean?"

"My father, he is a doctor and he thinks very little of the practice. He says it is used far too often and to the detriment of many patients."

"I have never seen a doctor and I know nothing of that. The midwife has said I have hard pulse disease and if I am not bled then I may collapse and have fits."

"And you are pleased with her advice?"

"She showed me and I could feel my pulse is harder than hers." Juliana dabbed her sleeve over her eyes. "Besides, hers is the only help I have. I must trust her. Mrs. Drummond does not know anything of such matters. It was she who made the arrangement with the midwife so I could work off my debt to her."

"Your father—"

"—has little sympathy for me. He does not believe that a case like mine is deserving of assistance."

"That is—"

"Do not think him so bad, though. If the baby is a boy, he has found a cousin of his, a farmer and his wife who have only daughters. They will take him and raise him as their heir." Juliana smiled, but it was the same smile Jane wore when she disagreed but did not wish to be disagreeable.

"And if it is not?" Oh, that sounded rather heartless. "I am one of five sisters and no brothers."

"Then…then…Mrs. Drummond and the midwife have promised to help." She shrugged and turned away to put on her night dress. "You are wondering of the father, no doubt."

"I…I…" Of course she was! Who would not be?

"Thank you for being kind enough not to ask. For that, I will tell you the truth."

"There is no need…truly…"

"Yes there is. You deserve to know the kind of girl you share a room with."

What could she mean, 'the kind of girl'?

"Not so very long ago, I was a gay little miss with my cap set on a particular young man. He was the favorite of the neighborhood, you know. Every girl sought to catch his eye."

"Was he an officer?" Lydia giggled.

"So you like a red coat? I did too, but he was simply a dandy, quite dashing in his blue coat and buckskin breeches. He wore them very well, you know."

Lydia sighed. She knew the sight well indeed. Wickham had been so handsome in his.

"I thought I stood no chance with him. I am not nearly so pretty as many of the others, nor so well dowered. My family was—is—respectable, but not of the first circles." She sat on the bed and plucked pins from her hair. "When he began to pay attention to me—I was all astonishment. I could not believe my good fortune."

It was a delightful thing to be noticed from amongst other girls. Would she ever feel that way again?

"The others were so jealous of me. I liked that, though I knew it was wrong. I enjoyed their envy and the way I suddenly became included in all their calls and parties."

"Why was that so wrong? Is not such a thing to be savored?" Lydia perched on the edge of her bed.

"It led me into great foolishness. I thought myself above them, above all I had been taught. I agreed to things I knew were wrong—"

"Like what?"

Juliana turned her face up and studied the ceiling. "He wanted to be alone with me. We would meet out in the woods and talk—at first. He wanted to be with me and that was all that mattered."

"But what is the harm in that. I do not see—"

"Perhaps that in and of itself was not so bad, but it led to more and more intimacies. Each one seemed little enough—and he said he loved me ever so much. At last he said he wished to marry me and would speak to my father of it very soon. So…so…I allowed him…he gave me a green gown."

"A what? Why would he—"

"He lay with me, there in the fields in the green grass."

Lydia blushed. Wickham had always insisted upon a proper room and furniture.

"It made him quite happy and did not hurt so much as I had been warned." She shrugged and brushed her hair. "It even became pleasant after a while. We did it nearly every day for weeks, waiting for the right time to talk to my father."

Lydia pressed her belly. She and Wickham had done something similar. "Did your father refuse the marriage?"

"No. Something happened. I know not what and his father sent him away to the continent. When I learnt of my condition, my brother concealed a letter from me in one from him."

"Did he not write back?"

"He did." She blinked rapidly, then squeezed her eyes shut.

"He refused to marry you?" Lydia whispered. She rubbed her temples hard. Wickham's voice echoed in her ears. How could he have abandoned her? If only—

"I am not sure of the truth of the matter. He may have wished to, but his father refused him. Then again, he may never have loved me at all and only seen me as a cheap bit of muslin to exercise his urges upon." Her voice broke.

That is what Lizzy and Aunt Gardiner said of Wickham…and herself.

"My father was furious when he discovered my condition and he has not spoken to me since. I am fortunate he sent me here instead of casting me into the streets."

"He would not—"

"Yes, he would. It was only the intervention of my mother and brother that prevented it. He has entirely cut me off, denied me the money that was to have been my dowry. He paid Mrs. Drummond for two years of keeping me, then I must make my own way. Me and the baby, if it is a girl." She stroked her belly, lips pressed tight.

"Have you no other family?"

"I may as well not. They have all refused me. I am dead to them"

"What...what will you do?"

"Mrs. Drummond is trying to prepare me as a governess or a companion. It would be difficult to find a position with a baby, though. So, if the baby is a girl, the midwife has consented to take me as an apprentice as soon as I have recovered. Mrs. Drummond will pay her to take me from the unused portion of my tuition here. So, it is possible you may not have to bear sharing a room with me very long."

"I…I…"

"I could see it on your face when I came in to dinner tonight."

Lydia tried to say something but could only stammer.

"Do not apologize. Joan and Amelia despise me, too. Several of the others do not like me very well either. Miss Fitzgilbert is very kind though. You will like her very well, I am sure. And Mrs. Drummond, too. She treats me far better than I deserve."

"She...better than you deserve? I think her quite horrid."

"Then you must be a far better soul than I, for a girl who has given away her virtue, compromised her family's reputation and come with child, unwed, is a very wicked creature indeed, deserving of no real kindness."

"I…I…that is to say…"

"Still, I hope you might be, in a way, my friend, since you must live with me as long as I am to remain here."

"Perhaps…"

"That is enough for now. I am pleased to hear it. Good night then." Juliana blew out the candle nearest her. She slipped into bed and rolled onto her right side, away from Lydia.

Lydia followed suit, but lay staring at the ceiling for a very long time.

Mrs. Drummond treats her well? Miss Fitzgilbert very kind? What kind of touched was Juliana? Could she not see how very awful they were?

Lydia rolled to stare into the darkness at Juliana's side of the room. Was that—no—in addition to everything else, the girl snored! How was this to be borne?

No wonder her father put her out. She must have been beastly to live with—utterly beastly.

But to send her away with nothing, to cast her into the streets—

Did Papa truly mean to do that to her? He said she had no place with them. Mrs. Drummond said that too. Mr. Darcy said if Mrs. Drummond was pleased with her, he would find her a situation.

Her stomach knotted. A 'situation'?' Did that mean she was to be a governess like Juliana? Would she not live with them and find a rich husband?

She curled into a tight knot and covered her face with her hands. Mr. Darcy said if Mrs. Drummond were not pleased with her, she would be Papa's problem. Mr. Darcy would have nothing to do with her.

Would Mama truly let him cast her out? She had done nothing when Lizzy was taken. Aunt and Uncle Gardiner had turned their backs and walked away when she had begged them to let her stay. Mama's letter said not to apply to her for assistance.

Her face grew cold and she fought back bile. Perhaps they had meant what they had said and she was truly abandoned to this wretched place.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

Bright morning sun streamed into her room. How did it have a right to be so cheerful when she was so miserable? She pulled the sheets over her head. Juliana was already stirring, so there was little point to trying to remain asleep.

"Did anyone explain our Sunday routine to you?" Juliana rolled out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown.

"No." Lydia peeked above the covers. Whatever it was, she was not going to like it.

Julian waddled into the sunlight and stuffed her feet into a pair of worn slippers. "I will go to the kitchen for some warm water to wash, then I can explain it all to you." Juliana padded away, ignoring Lydia's pained groan.

Perhaps if she could fall back to sleep before Juliana returned, she might be left in peace.

Why was it not surprising that she had barely rolled over when Juliana returned with the ceramic wash jug.

"We were very lucky today. Cook already had a kettle steaming when I got to the kitchen." She huffed a bit as she place the jug on the wash stand.

"What good fortune." Lydia muttered, throwing off the sheets.

"Why do you not have the first turn—only leave me some warm water, please." Juliana shuffled aside.

Lydia sloshed some water into the wash basin, and then added a bit more. What right had Miss Waddles-About to tell her how much to use?

She washed her face and hands and turned to find Juliana in her chemise and stays, a hopeful look on her face.

"Could you help me with these again?"

Lydia huffed and flung a hand in the air. If she had any sense, she would wear short stays that tied in the front "I suppose so. Shall I do your hair as well?"

"Thank you, no. It is all hidden under my cap so there is little point." Juliana turned her back to Lydia.

Gah! Was the girl too stupid to recognize sarcasm? Lydia pulled at the laces. The stays were very old and worn. "The laces are near to breaking."

"I know. Do not pull them very tight or they will. I cannot afford new ones."

Lydia nearly dropped the laces. Not able to afford so small an expense? Surely she exaggerated…surely. But then, why else would she wear such ridiculous stays?

"That is perfect, like that. Thank you. I am sorry to keep bothering you with them." Juliana waddled off and began to wash.

Lydia dressed, appreciating her own short stays as she never had before.

Juliana pulled on her dress, struggling a bit with the bib front. "Now we must clean our room."

"Excuse me?"

"Each Sunday before holy services, Mrs. Drummond requires that we clean our rooms."

"Does she not have maids for that?"

"Surely she told you we are required to do much of the work of the house." Juliana slipped her apron over her head.

"She…I…but…"

"You did not understand what it would entail? Few of us did. But it will not kill you. And we never know, one day we might have to find employ as maids."

"I shall never be a maid." Lydia tossed her head.

"I hope you are correct, but it is a better fate than starving in the streets. Regardless of your opinions, we must clean the room."

"Our maid has always done that. I do not know what to do."

"You have never assisted?"

"I have helped make a bed, but that is all." She was serious? They were actually going to do this?

"No matter, I will show you. It is not so bad once you get accustomed to it. Go downstairs and get a kettle of boiling water and a pail for the slops. I shall get started on the beds whilst you are gone."

Lydia snorted. Who was that bossy old thing to order her about?

"Would you rather start on the beds and I get the water? I have already fetched water once today, after all, and only thought it fair we should share the job. But, if you disagree, here is the dust rag."

"Why would I need that?"

"To dust the chairs before you will turn the sheets on to them."

"Oh. I suppose I will get the water." Lydia hurried out lest Juliana invent another chore for her.

Scene 9 Juliana takes ill and Mrs. Drummond helps out

Joan met her on the stairs. "So you have been sent to fetch water?" She lifted the water jug in her hands.

"I am to bring boiling water for cleaning the room." Lydia wrinkled up her face into a mockery of Juliana's expression.

Joan choked back a laugh. "Did you have not hot water to wash with?"

"We did. Juliana brought some up."

"Why do you need more? We always use extra wash water for cleaning too. What is the point in climbing the stairs more than we must? She's just seeing how much more work she can make you do."

"I thought she was demanding far too much." Lydia huffed and stomped into the kitchen.

Mrs. Drummond stood near Cook, by the stove, adding kettles and pots of water to heat.

"I need wash water," Joan said.

"And a boiling kettle and slop pail," Lydia added.

"Provide Miss Bennet with her request while I have a talk with Miss Colbrane." Mrs. Drummond took Joan by the elbow to a corner of the kitchen, a most disagreeable look on her face. But then again, most of her looks were quite disagreeable.

Cook wrapped the handle of the kettle in a towel and handed it to Lydia. "Mind yourself not to get burned."

In the background, Lydia could just make out Mrs. Drummond scolding Joan for attempting to take short cuts with their cleaning. It sounded as though they would be cleaning the teachers' bedrooms as well. Amelia would be so angry!

Perhaps it would be best to listen to Juliana. She had seemed to have garnered some favor from Mrs. Drummond. Perhaps if she played Juliana's friend, she might receive it as well.

She trudged back upstairs, burning herself twice along the way.

Juliana met her at the door. She took the kettle and set it on the hearth. "I have the windows all open and the beds stripped. Empty the wash basin and chamber pot into the slop pail, scald the vessels, along with the water jar and tumbler and empty them into the pail."

"Why am I to do all the work? I brought up the water."

Juliana turned aside as though she had not heard. "I will get the large furniture covered with the dusting sheets and fetch the supplies to clean out the fireplace. Just be happy we do not have a carpet to roll up, take outside and beat."

Unpleasant though it was, emptying and scalding the vessels and discarding the slop pail did not take very long. Soon Lydia found herself sent to fetch damp sand for the floor and a fresh pail of scrub water.

Just how many times had she climbed the stairs this morning and it was not even time for breakfast, yet? Surely Juliana was inventing errands for her.

Juliana finished the fireplace and ordered her to dust the windows and furniture while she did the walls and ceiling. How often the lazy girl stopped, huffing and panting, unable to catch her breath. Just like her to leave Lydia with all the work.

Dusting finished, Juliana took the sand jar, leaving Lydia to move all the small furniture to the center of the room.

Lydia shoved the broom at Juliana. "You sweep. I am utterly fagged."

She simply nodded and went to the far side of the room to begin.

Lydia watched from the doorway, leaning on the door jam. Juliana looked funny, waddling about, maneuvering the broom around her belly.

"Oh!" Juliana staggered and caught herself on the chest of drawers. The broom clattered on the floor.

"Juliana!" Miss Fitzgilbert rushed in.

When had Miss High-and-Mighty arrived? Probably sent by Mrs. Drummond to snoop on them.

"The midwife told you to take care and not work too hard. Come, my room is already finished. You may lie down there while I fetch Mrs. Drummond." Miss Fitzgilbert took Juliana's arm and led her out. "You, finish sweeping and scrub the floors."

"By myself?"

"Can you not see she has made herself ill? Had you been a bit more considerate, she might still be able to help you."

Lydia stared after them. How could she possibly be expected to do so much alone? She grabbed the broom and began sweeping. At first, she just flung it from side to side, but that only threw dust upon the furniture she had just cleaned. The prospect of doing that chore again did not appeal.

Mama was very particular about how the maids did their work at her house. What did it look like when the maid had done this at home? She closed her eyes and mimicked the motions she remember. Yes, that was more effective.

"Do not forget to sweep under all the furniture." A voice called from the door.

How kind of Miss Fitzgilbert to stop and offer advice. She grabbed a flannel cloth and reached under the chest of drawers. Why bother with this? There was hardly anything under it. Underneath the beds was similarly clean.

Dust pail filled, the only thing left was to scrub the floor. Wretched task on her knees with her hands in the cold water. Where was Juliana to do her share?"

Muttering under her breath, she grabbed the pail and rags and dropped to her knees. She turned her back to the door and dunked the cloth in the cold soapy water. How she hated the feel of it on her hands, slippery and dry all at the same time. Why, she would soon have chilblains and cracked fingertips! How then would she be able to sew or practice the pianoforte? Oh, this was wretched indeed.

The sounds of shifting furniture and sloshing liquids drifted, into the hallway. At least she was not alone in her misery. Perhaps someone would come along and help.

She sat back on her heels and dragged her sleeve across her forehead. Only in spring and fall when Papa demanded everything be completely cleaned did she ever work this hard—and then only if Mama did not have enough extra household money to hire and additional girl for the duration.

"I see no one has taught you to scrub floors." Mrs. Drummond stood in the doorway behind her.

She jumped to her feet, slipping in a small puddle. "Ah, yes, I mean no, madam."

Mrs. Drummond minced over the very wet floor, leaving foot prints behind her. "Then I shall show you, but pay attention for I shall only do it once." She grabbed the pail and cloths and went to the far side of the room. "Bring the sand, you have some stains."

Lydia grabbed the sand and rushed over, sliding and slipping in her wet shoes.

Mrs. Drummond dropped to her knees and beckoned Lydia down. "First, you must always begin farthest away from the door and work toward it, lest you trap yourself inside with a clean wet floor between you and the way out." She pointed to the messy foot prints on the places she had already cleaned.

Lydia winced. Mama's maid did that, too. But who knew it should matter so much?

"Now to begin, take the cloth in the cleaning water and wring it a bit, too much only makes a mess. Now rub it along the length of the floor boards, not across mind you. This is especially important if you must scrub a stain. Here, give me the sand." She sprinkled a small handful on a dark spot. "Take the cloth and scrub with the grain of the wood until it is gone. Do not rub in circles or across the grain." She looked up at Lydia. "I will not have my floor boards ruined."

"Yes, Mrs. Drummond."

"Now, when you are finished, you must take fresh water—where is your rinse pail?"

"I…I…do not have one." Had Juliana told her to get one? Perhaps…oh bother, she did not remember now. Too many people telling her what to do!

"Go down stairs and fetch one. Quickly, now!"

Lydia almost tripped over her own feet as she dashed to the kitchen. Several buckets stood near the door. The cook signaled her to take one.

One never realized how heavy water was until it needed to be carted from one place to another. No wonder washer women were invariably so disagreeable.

Lydia staggered into her room with the pail sloshing out splashes as she skidded over the wet patches and muddy footprints. What had happened to her clean floor?

While she had been gone, Mrs. Drummond had scrubbed a fairly large patch from the corner to the window.

"Bring the rinse water here now. Down here with me." She passed a clean rag to Lydia. "Now take a fresh rag in the clean water and wring it well. Rinse off the soap or it will leave ugly marks and the dirt will say behind. Like that. Finally, you take a dry cloth and sop up the rinse water."

Side by side, they wiped the clean patch dry.

"Now you have a clean floor." Mrs. Drummond rose and wiped her hands on her apron. "Now finish up in here and you may go to the morning room to take breakfast." She left Lydia to stare at the empty doorway.

How cruel, to leave her to this huge dirty floor all by herself. Lydia shoved stray hair out of her eyes. Perhaps—she tucked it under her mobcap and it stayed. That was useful.

Perched down on sore knees, she whimpered to them empty room. Why had Mrs. Drummond not brought Juliana back to help her finish? Lydia sniffled. No, no such work for the headmistress's pet. She muttered under her breath and set back to scrubbing.

An hour later, she wiped the last bit dry and backed out the door, dragging her pails and cloths with her.

Miss Fitzgilbert bustled past. "Bring all that down to the scullery, the cloths too. You will see a great basket for them as you enter."

Oh, how she wanted to speak her mind, but she was far too weary—and now too hungry to do so. She trudged behind Miss High-and-Mighty, leaving her burdens in the dark little scullery for someone else to deal with.

How very good it felt not to be stooped over a bucket of dirty cold water. She straightened her back and stretched. Other girls pushed past her and she dodged out of their way.

Something smelled very good indeed. She followed the scent to the breakfast room where the table was piled with all manner of good food. Plain food to be sure, but hearty and plentiful.

Amelia waved at her to take a seat between her and Joan.

"I am so fagged!" Lydia fell into the chair and threw her head back.

"I hate Sunday mornings!" Amelia hissed.

"At least we get to eat before she drags us off to hear the vicar."

"Oh I do hate the sermonizing." Amelia rolled her eyes. "And Mr. Weatherby is so long winded—"

"And holy!" Joan sat up very straight and folded her hands before her, eyes cast to the ceiling.

Amelia giggled. "Very, very holy. Can you imagine being a vicar's wife?"

"What a horrible fate, particularly with one like him. I do not think one might do anything right in his eyes."

Amelia leaned low to the table and whispered. "It is truly awful when Mrs. Drummond has him to dinner with us."

Lydia covered her gasp with her hand. "Does she do that often?"

"At least once a fortnight." Joan pouted. "I expect he will be joining us sometime this week."

"How he likes to remind us of how very wicked we are."

"And how grateful we should be for our situation here."

"As if anyone could be grateful for this workhouse." Lydia piled a slab of ham and several potatoes on her plate. Juliana seemed most appreciative of Mrs. Drummond's school.

"One would have to be quite stupid to do that." Joan laughed and handed her a plate of scones.

Surely she was right. Only a fool would appreciate this place.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The girls filed upstairs to dress for church. It would be a relief to remove the damp, dirty work dress for something fresh and—dare she even think it?—pretty.

Juliana stood beside her bed, breathing heavily. Both beds were fully made and the rest of the furniture back in place. "I am so sorry I could not help with the floors. I thought perhaps I could help—" she gasped and grabbed the headboard.

"You are very pale!" Lydia ran to her.

"I am…so dizzy…"

"Here, lay down. I will fetch help."

"But I only just made the beds—"

"Well, the floor is clean if you insist on not mussing the blankets. Only do get off your feet before you fall and hit your head on something." She helped Juliana down to the bed and dashed out.

Miss Fitzgilbert caught her in the hall. "Why are you not dressed for church?"

"Juliana is very unwell. I think…she needs help."

Miss Fitzgilbert looked toward Lydia's room, forehead creasing. "Go back to her. I shall get Mrs. Drummond."

Lydia ran back to her room. Juliana lay on her bed, curled on her side, face ashen.

"Please, some water?" Juliana croaked.

Lydia fumbled with the water jar and tumbler, nearly dropping them twice before she managed to separate them. She poured half a glassful and hurried back to Juliana.

"Here."

Juliana propped herself on her elbow and swallowed a few sips. Her color changed and her eyes grew wide.

Lydia ran for the wash basin and got it to her just in time for Juliana to cast up her accounts.

Mrs. Drummond rushed in. "I told you to rest. Why did you go on to make the beds?"

"It would not have been fair…"

Mrs. Drummond brushed sweat matted hair back from Juliana's face. "We need the midwife." She looked over her shoulder at Lydia. "Find Miss Fitzgilbert and tell her. Go with her to fetch the midwife."

"What of church?"

"You are excused for today."

"Yes, madam." Lydia managed a hurried curtsey before she ran off.

Miss Fitzgilbert lingered just outside the door. "I heard. Let us go quickly. Get your bonnet and wrap. I will meet you downstairs."

Lydia's heart raced as she went back to snatch up her things and dashed down the stairs. How many times had she watched Lizzy rush out this way on some emergency with Papa? Had she been as anxious? She had never seemed so when she assembled Papa's bag and set out his coat and waited patiently for him at the door.

Lydia reached the bottom step, and Miss Fitzgilbert raced for the door. Lydia ran to keep up. Heavens! She did not know her way around Summerseat. Should she become separated from Miss Fitzgilbert, she could lose her way entirely. Lydia increased her pace, keeping one eye on Miss Fitzgilbert and the other on the landmarks they raced past.

Miss Fitzgilbert did not speak for nearly half a mile. "I am surprised you are not complaining I am walking too fast or that this is a pointless errand."

"I know you think me a stupid little thing, but my father is…a medical man…and I am very familiar with the haste those situations call for."

"How gracious of you."

"Why are you so cross with me?. I did not make her ill. This is not my fault."

"You think not? I beg to differ." Miss Fitzgilbert pumped her arms and walked a little faster.

"How can you say such a thing?"

"Any fool could see she was ill with just a glance."

"Perhaps you could, already knowing her condition, but she looked quite fine to me."

"Because you were too selfish to see—her color, her difficulty breathing—did you not notice any of it?"

"No…I did not."

"I thought you said you were the daughter of a medical man." Miss Fitzgilbert tossed her head. "Too concerned about your own hardship to care or see anyone else's."

"What would you know of hardship, of what I have suffered?"

Miss Fitzgilbert stopped and stared.

Lydia struggled to stop and nearly stumbled.

"And what do you know of the rest of us? You think you are the only one of us to suffer?" She set off again, even faster than before.

"What has everyone else lost compared to me? I have been—"

"Keep it to yourself. I do not care to know."  
Gah! The wretched girl did not deserve to hear about her dear Wickham in any case. "What then is your loss if you think it so great?"

"I do not care to speak of it. It has no bearing upon the current situation." She pointed to a narrow, rock strewn lane that wandered off the main road. Old trees reached their gnarled limbs above the lane, casting their shade and shadows on the path. "There is the midwife's house."

She ran toward vine covered stone cottage, Lydia slightly behind.

A plain, serious woman opened the door. She looked like the woman Charlotte Lucas might be in twenty years more.

"It is Juliana, Mrs. Harrow. She has taken quite ill." Miss Fitzgilbert's words tumbled out in a rush.

"Is she having fits? What about bleeding?"

"No, I do not think so, or at least Mrs. Drummond said nothing about it."

"That is good then." She stepped outside and cupped her hands alongside her mouth. "Boy! Hitch up the donkey cart. I need it. Be smart about it. I'll fetch me things." She turned back into the house and shut the door.

"Now what?" Lydia asked.

"We go back. Mrs. Harrow knows the way to the school."

From the back of the house, a donkey brayed and a young boy muttered expletives not fit for a young lady's ears.

Lydia rubbed her hands along her shoulders. The deep shade left the air sharp and chilly. "I think it very inconsiderate for her not to drive us back."

"She has not room for two and it would not do for one of us to walk alone."

Lizzy often went out alone, particularly on errands for Papa—but Mama had never much liked that.

"We may slow down a bit on the way back. There is nothing we can do for them before the midwife arrives."

"Thank heavens." Lydia still struggled to catch her breath.

They walked several minutes in exhausted silence. Mrs. Harrow's donkey cart passed them on the main road, the ungainly animal hurrying past at a fair clip.

"Donkeys are such stupid looking creatures," Lydia muttered, kicking a small rock.

"Their long ears are quite ridiculous, especially hers with the ear that falls to the left. Sometimes her boy puts a straw hat on it and it looks like an old gossip standing by the fence."

Lydia tittered—a gossiping donkey? What a lark!

The cart disappeared down the road, taking the good humor with it.

"Has Juliana been ill long?"

"She was much better when she first arrived. But the more she has increased, the sicker she has become. You are fortunate to share a room with her." Miss Fitzgilbert retied the strings of her bonnet and tugged her gloves a little straighter.

"Why do you say that? She snores quite abominably."

"She does not complain. Some of the others do naught but whinge when they fancy themselves unwell, but Juliana says nothing, often for far longer than she should."

"My father said those patients were among the most difficult to treat. He said sometimes they would die never having given him a true picture of what was wrong or the chance to treat them properly. It could make him very angry indeed."

"Poor thing insists it is her penance for acting so wickedly."

"Penance?" Lydia gasped. "She is a papist?"

"Does it matter? Mrs. Drummond insists we do not talk of such things. We are all equal here. She is the sweetest, kindest girl among us. It is not fair that she should be so stricken."

"My father says sickness makes little sense, striking where it will. Our vicar once said it was the hand of divine punishment, but that made Papa very angry and he went on to tell the vicar so. It caused quite a row. Papa insisted it could not be so simple, that the issue had to be far more complicated than mere men could comprehend."

"I am surprised you would recall that."

"I am not entirely certain of what he meant. I did not think about it much then." But it did seem the right thing to say now.

Scene 11 Returning with the rest of the students; stares on the street

The walk back to Mrs. Drummond's felt far longer than the trip to the midwife's. Along the way, they encountered the rest of the school returning from services. Miss Fitzgilbert hurried to Miss Honeywell and Miss Thornton who lead the procession. Naturally the head girl would need to appraise the teachers of every little detail.

Lydia inserted herself into the back of the line with Joan and Amelia.

"How did you get so fortunate as to miss out on service this morning?" Amelia asked.

"Mr. Weatherby was in rare form today." Joan wrinkled her face up.

"Indeed he was: long, holy and boring. The very epitome of a churchman."

"At least we shall be spared his company at dinner this week. He has been called away on some business and," Joan lifted her nose in the air and folded her hands before her chest, "regrets he must decline the invitation."

Lydia giggled.

A cluster of women, children in tow, crossed the street as they approached. Two young dandies on the corner stared at them, something unsettling in their eyes.

"Why do they gawk so?" Lydia asked, glancing over her shoulder at the women whispering amongst themselves.

"Oh, them." Amelia made a terrible face at the gawkers. "Ignore them;, they are stupid, arrogant, biddies who think their marriages make them better than us."

Were not married women considered above the unmarried? Did they not have some right to regard themselves superior?

"But why do they stare?" Lydia pointed at the men with her chin.

Joan snorted. "They are horrid and think far too well of themselves. They like the look of us well enough, but are far too fine to tip their hats. They say the most appalling things about us, you know."

"No what do they say?" Lydia's cheeks prickled. She did not like people, particularly handsome young men, talking about her.

Joan and Amelia giggled. Perhaps she did not want to know after all.

"They call us Mrs. Drummond's Lady-birds. Can you imagine their cheek?" Amelia cast another foul expression at the dandies.

Lydia's cheeks burned. Once she had gone into town and Mama pulled her and Kitty aside, pointing out a group of very pretty girls surrounded by a cloud of young men. She warned them to stay away from those 'ladybirds' as their reputations were tarnished and they were not fit company for good society. Could that be what those women were saying now—or worse?

Lydia fought the urge to run to them and shake them. She was a gentleman's daughter and fitting company for anyone—probably too good for those jealous old hens.

Wasn't she?

"Just ignore them." Joan elbowed her.

Lydia looked over her shoulder. Mr. Amberson walked behind them, a very somber expression on his face. He saw the gawkers too. What did he think of them?

Why did she care?

Back at the school, the girls were dismissed to their own amusements for the afternoon. Lydia tried to go to her room, but the midwife chased her out. Dear Juliana had to rest and could not be disturbed. Mrs. Drummond told her she could not even sleep there that night. If one of the other girls would not share with her tonight, she might sleep on the daybed in Mrs. Drummond's office. That would give anyone nightmares.

Lydia hurried off and secured an invitation from Joan and Amelia, but they shooed her away for the time being as they intended a long afternoon nap.

Sounds of practice filtered from the music room. Miss Greenville was quite good with the guitar. It sounded like the other top girl who played so well—Miss Long perhaps—was there with here and maybe one other. They must be putting together a performance. Even if she wanted to practice, she would not have been welcome to intrude on their gathering.

In the parlor, several girls worked on fancy projects, though it made little sense. Mrs. Drummond certainly would not allow them to wear anything so fine. Why bother working so diligently on something that would never be seen?

Several others played games: spillikins, knucklebones, cards. Lydia was good at knucklebones. Perhaps…no they had already started and the very blonde girl without a cap—Penelope was it?—glowered at her as she approached.

Lydia wandered away. How cruel; no one cared about her.

Soft voices filtered from form the morning room. Miss Honeywell and Miss Thornton discussed something in serious tones. If she stopped and stayed very still, she might be able to hear. She held her breath and listened, but even eavesdropping for gossip held little appeal right now. Even chores were better than this boring quiet and being so very alone.

A breeze wafted in. Perhaps a walk in the little garden behind the house would do for her. Lizzy always took walks when she was out of sorts.

Lydia tip toed to the back door. She did not have to sneak about—it was allowed after all. But boldness did not feel natural in this place.

She slipped into the garden. A few faded autumn blooms greeted her, but mostly dry stems and spindly stalks waved. The little gazebo in the corner might be very appealing in spring and summer, but it looked so—undressed now. A little like Juliana padding about in her stays and chemise.

She giggled.

"Oh, Miss Bennet." Mr. Amberson sat on a painted bench in the shade of the house, a newspaper in his lap. He tipped his hat.

What was it men found so endlessly entertaining about a newspaper? Papa was forever reading his.

"Excuse me sir., I did not mean to intrude."

"Not at all. By all means, avail yourself of the fresh air. I am a proponent of the restorative powers of fresh air and a turn about the grounds." He returned to his paper.

She shrugged. At least he had spoken to her. Someone in this dismal place acknowledged her.

A little path at the edge of the house looked like it had been recently swept clean. It led into a small copse of trees.

She followed it. Gardens were so much pleasanter in the spring than in the autumn when everything was turning all crunchy and crumbly underfoot.

The gardens at Rosings often held little surprises if one looked carefully. Lady Catherine had a fondness for nasty little stone dwarves that the gardeners tucked in among the plants. It was jolly fun to see polite guests shocked at them. They would wonder if they had seen them at all and be far too polite to remark. What a good joke! Mama saw one once and nearly screamed.

This garden was dull and needed something equally lively. But she was no stone mason.

A bit of fallen branch caught her eye. Oh, it had something of a face, if one looked at it right—all drawn up on one side, a bit like a sailor with one eye put out.

Lydia picked up the wood and turned it about in her hands. A few right shaped pebbles would make it perfect. She walked along the path, scuffing her toes in the dirt. Oh, that one would do very well for an eye—it even had a dark patch in the right spot!

She giggled and picked it up . And that one looked like a tooth! Stooping to retrieve it, she spied the perfect place to secret her one-eyed sailor. A mound of heather would shelter him well enough that few would see him clearly—just like Lady Catherine's garden dwarves.

She skipped to the heather and gently separated an opening in the stems.

"Might I inquire as to your occupation?"

She jumped and nearly dropped her creation.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you." Mr. Amberson gazed at her hands, the corners of his mouth turned up just a mite. "What is that?" He reached for it.

Her hand trembled as she surrendered it to him. Would he be very cross with her little bit of fun?

He turned it round in his hands until he had it right way up. "He is a very clever fellow indeed, but he needs a bit of something like a handkerchief tied round his head I think."

She tittered. "I think you are right."

"I believe I have just the thing." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tattered rag. "It is not good for polishing instruments anymore." He tied it around the face where it might have kept hair from its eyes, had it hair.

"Oh it is perfect!"

"Now what did you mean to do with it?"

"I know a lady who keeps such things in her garden…to make it more interesting to her guests. I thought that clump of heather quite dull."

He pressed his lips hard, but a stifled chuckle still escaped. "What an excellent thought, indeed. Might I assist you?"

"It would be much easier with someone to hold back the heather for me."

"I am at your service." He parted the thick plant enough for her to tuck their creation well into the stems. When he released the heather, one could barely see it. Perfectly situated to give polite strollers a start.

"Do your duty, Mr. Birch." Mr. Amberson made a small salute.

"Mr. Birch?"

"The name does suit, I think."

"It does. I just had not though to name such a thing."

"All artists name their creations. They are not complete until they are named."

"I suppose I have never known an artist."

"They are unique and peculiar creatures, much like Mr. Birch. Are you an artist Miss Bennet?"

What a very odd question. "I do not know. I have never been taught."

"I think you might be. What you did with Mr. Birch is very clever indeed. You may find Miss Honeywell's drawing instruction quite liberating."

"Liberating? I do not understand."

"When one is an artist, there is something inside that must be released. When it is penned up, it can be destructive, like a caged animal searching for escape. But once expressed in one's art, it is freed, liberated if you will and the character changed into something generative and remarkable."

She peered up at him, brow knotted.

"If you are an artist, it will, in time makes sense to you. And if not, you will determine that I am a queer but harmless fellow best left to his music for he makes little sense otherwise. Good day." He tipped his hand and sauntered back to the house.

What a very, very strange man—all elbows and knees as he walked. It was a wonder he did not fall over his own feet.

But he seemed kind, certainly kinder than anyone else she had met in this place. And he did understand about Mr. Birch. He had not made fun of her over that. There was much to be said for such a person, even if he was by his own admission, rather peculiar.

She strolled several more circuits around the garden, passing by the heather each time to relish Mr. Birch's lopsided grin. Somehow it made the dreary little garden just a bit more inviting. Perhaps she would tell Joan and Amelia about him…perhaps not. They might not keep her secret as well as Mr. Amberson.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

That night, Lydia lay awake long into the night listening to the stories Joan and Amelia told in hushed whispers beneath the bed linens they fashioned into a tent to contain their giggles.

Both girls had been very wealthy and had so many adventures before being consigned to Mrs. Drummond. Amelia had lived in France—her mother was French! She had even visited the French court. Joan had been presented at court and had danced with the Prince himself. None of her own stories could compare.

Their admirers made Wickham seem drab and ordinary by comparison. Might she have met someone far more dashing, too? Wickham had seemed so splendid at the time. But Amelia's lover promised to find her, seek her out to the ends of the earth when her father denied his suit.

Why had not Wickham done that? He had not tried very hard at all to stay with her, instead, he had demanded money from Mr. Darcy instead, how romantic was that?

She had plenty of time to consider the possibility. How did Joan sleep with the horrible noises coming from Amelia side of the room? She sounded like Lady Catherine's sow.

Thankfully, after a few days, the midwife pronounced Juliana improved and Lydia was able to return to her own room—with the admonition that Juliana was to do no hard labor. Of course, it would come with such a stipulation, but to be able to sleep at night was well worth it.

Days blurred into weeks and the routine, through dreary and hard, became familiar. Mr. Amberson had been right. Miss Honeywell's drawing lessons became the high points of her week. She even found solace in practicing her writing and creating her letters so perfectly even Mrs. Drummond praised her hand.

Why did those words of praise raise such warmth in her chest? Papa and Mama were not apt to say such things. She was pretty and gay and that was all that mattered to them.

On her fourth Friday at Mrs. Drummond's, she wandered into the music room more to watch the lovely sunbeams dancing there—and to imagine the fairies they must be dancing with—than any real desire to practice. A large oak tree grew in front of the window and its bare branches made for the most entertaining places for fairies and sunbeams to hide and play.

She sat at the piano stool. The music she was supposed to learn had been left on the music stand. Why did everything seem to nag her to practice?

Mr. Amberson was a better music master than any she had had before. He seemed to have no favorites and was patient in nearly all things, even with things no music master tolerated, indifferent musicians and failure to practice. What was more, he never raised his voice, ever.

Only disrespect seemed to rouse his ire. More than that, it made him angry, almost frighteningly so. But his anger was different to Papa's. He did not say cruel, harsh things, nor did he ever tend toward violence. No, Mr. Amberson was entirely calm. Lydia had never seen a man so calm and controlled in his fury. She had no idea what to expect and that was frightening.

Ruth Sommers discovered what his anger meant and would not be likely to try it again. She had foolishly thought her considerable talent would shield her from his displeasure as it had with Mr. Clearly. Twice he cautioned her to guard her thoughts and her tongue and not criticize her teachers. The teachers were worthy of respect. But she failed to take heed, and he came across her whispering her judgments against Miss Thornton to Joan and Lydia.

He called them all to Mrs. Drummond's office, but Lydia and Joan were quickly dismissed as they had only listened, not participated in the insults themselves. They lingered outside though and heard him repeat Ruth's unfortunate comments to the headmistress. Mrs. Drummond offered Ruth a tongue lashing not to be forgotten, punctuated by several lashes from her cane.

How Ruth screeched! Lydia shuddered. What a dreadful thing, to be struck like a servant, knowing everyone was aware of your suffering. Though Papa might have become angry with her and her sisters, he never struck them. Not that his angry words and the inevitable being ignored afterwards were not brutal enough to do the job sufficiently.

By all rights, she should feel wary of Mr. Amberson now, but he had warned Ruth before acted, and did exactly what he said he would do. He had never warned her of anything, so, he did not seem so threatening. Lydia swallowed hard and played the first notes of the music.

It was a pleasing little country tune that reminded her of dancing and spring. It was easier now than the first time she had played, and since Mr. Amberson had told her the history of the piece and why this and that bit were special, she liked it very well indeed.

The melody might do very well for a jig, if one changed the tempo a mite. She played the chorus through again, imagining herself and Kitty dancing to it. Oh, but the last line did not fit the dance. Perhaps repeating those measures from the verse? She played thorough it again, skipping the complex fingerings Mr. Amberson insisted she try. Yes that would make for a very agreeable dance.

"A very interesting interpretation, Miss Bennet."

She jumped. Why was he forever startling her, lurking in doorways like that? She snatched her hands back from the instrument. "I…I was only fiddling about, sir, not really playing anything."

"I beg to differ, you were indeed playing something."

"I know I was not doing as you asked." She wrung her hands in her lap, beneath the keyboard. "I can do it the way you taught—"

"No, I should like to hear what you were playing again."

"But I cannot do the left hand—"

He walked in and stood to her left. "Then I shall play that part. You just do the melody. Begin, and I shall follow."

She gulped and put her left hand in her lap. _Spring and dancing and jigs_. She drew a deep breath and played the opening notes.

Mr. Amberson's long fingers added a base line that fit the melody she played, but did not match the music as it was written. It was close, but his way of playing it was much prettier.

They played it through twice. How pleasant it was to play with someone else who could play all the difficult places.

"Very nice, Miss Bennet. Very nice indeed. The arrangement is still rough. The dynamics and transitions require further attention, but I imagine you have only just begun composing?"

"Composing?" Is that what she had done? What a singular thought. "Only just now sir."

"Continue to work with it and makes notes so you do not forget what we have done here. We shall revisit this at your next lesson."

"But I cannot write music."

"I believe you just have." He tipped his head and left.

Why did he always simply disappear like that? Why did he say such queer things? He was so very odd. At least he had not disapproved. Papa always became quite cross if she did not play music just as it had been written. That was why she hated to practice, but this might even be considered fun. She returned to the keyboard.

An hour later, scuffling in the hallway broke her concentration. Lessons! Oh, Miss Thornton was ever such the stickler about tardiness! What a crosspatch!

Lydia jumped off the piano stool and dashed out. She scooted into her place in the school room just as Miss Thornton shut the door against latecomers.

"We thought you were not going to make it!" Joan whispered.

"Whatever were you doing to make you so late?" Amelia asked.

"Practicing."

"You practicing?" Amelia sniffed.

"Well, perhaps it was not precisely practicing, but I was playing the pianoforte."

"Then you were not practicing."

Miss Thornton strode to the front of the room. "We shall begin with your ledgers today, continuing where we left off last time, considering household accounts."

Lydia opened the ledger, now filled with tidy numbers, sitting politely in orderly lines. Miss Thornton droned on as she paced before her students about the need for accuracy and precision in one's record keeping.

In the role of household manager, one might never keep too accurate a record, particularly where it came to money and spending. Careful plans must be made, and good regulation must be maintained at all times. One might even keep the monies allocated for different purposes in separate purses that the money might not be used inappropriately.

On this point, Miss Thornton became very animated; her color heightened, hands waving with a flourish. What a laughable expression she worse, a bit like a toad with glasses balanced on the end of its nose, curls stuck to its forehead.

She bit her lip and held her breath to avoid laughing. Miss Thorny Patch had no sense of humor…and she was very good at assigning ghastly, dull, and tedious work when irate.

Why should she care about how many wide mouth bottles one should have ready to store peas grown in a particular size plot? She was not a farmer nor would she be a farmer's wife. When would such drivel ever be useful? Nonetheless, she began to work on the problem.

How many peas would grow in such a plot? She sketched the garden scheme and added tiny pea plants in the intervals suggested. If they were to bear peas, they needed to flower. What did those flowers look like?

She closed her eyes a moment. Yes, that was it. She moved her pencil to a fresh spot on the paper and drew a fair likeness of the pea flowers she had seen in Mrs. Collins' gardens. While she did not have stone dwarves in her gardens, Mrs. Collins seemed to have an abundance of toads. A toad took shape next to the pea blossom, sheltering in its shadow.

Oh, it looked like Thorny Patch! She added glasses and curls—and a tiny wart on the chin—just to prove it was not—

"That looks like her!" Joan pressed into her shoulder, peering at the image. "Amelia, look." She pulled Lydia's ledger toward her and pointed at the drawing.

"Oh, you have captured her at her best." Amelia whispered a mite too loudly.

"Give it back. That was not—" Lydia snatched her book back but Joan slapped her hand on it.

"No, I want to see."

"It is mine and I need it!" Lydia shoved Joan's hand away and grabbed the book.

"Lydia Bennet." Miss Thornton did not have to shout. Her firm voice penetrated every corner of the school room that had gone silent as a church yard.

Lydia gasped, limbs turning icy and stiff. "Yes, miss."

"What is the disturbance in my classroom?"

"My ledger…she was looking at it and I needed it back."

"And upon what, Joan Colbrane, were you so intent upon looking? Are you unable to do your own work?"

"No, madam. It was not that. I have finished…"

"So what were you doing?"

"Lydia draws pretty pictures, Miss, and I was looking at them."

Lydia turned to Joan, eyes bulging. Would that she could shake the stupid girl!

"Come to my desk, Lydia and bring your book."

Somehow her feet carried her to the front of the room amidst the telling expressions of her classmates. Some seemed self-satisfied, others like Juliana, seemed genuinely troubled. All pointed to one truth. Displeasing Miss Thornton was a bad thing.

The span across the front of the classroom felt like the longest walk she had ever taken, leaving her nearly breathless and panting when she reached the teacher's desk.

The tall, gaunt woman looked more like a witch than a toad now. She held out her hand, eyes narrowed into frightening slits, like those archers might use to shoot through in castle walls.

Lydia surrendered her ledger book, hands shaking so hard she nearly dropped it. What were they all staring at? Did they think it good fun that she stood alone facing the wrath of Miss Thorny Patch?

It was Joan and Amelia's fault she was here. Why were they not called out too?

Miss Thornton leafed through the pages, huffing and muttering under her breath. "I see you have some confusion as to what subject you are studying. You have mistaken these lessons for Miss Honeywell's instruction in drawing. What precisely is _this_ doing in your calculations?" She pointed at the garden sketch.

"I needed to know how many plants were in the garden." Lydia stammered.

Several girls snickered, including Amelia. Juliana and Miss Greenville winced.

"And this?"

"That is a pea blossom."

"So you could calculate how many peas your plant might bear?"

Several laughed out loud. Lydia's face burned. Was this how her sister Mary felt when Mama required her to play before company then criticized her afterwards?

"And this—how do you explain this frog—"

"It is a toad, madam."

Miss Thornton twitched. "This toad…with glasses?"

"I…I…I cannot."

"Oh, but I believe I can. I am not simpleton, Miss Lydia Bennet. I full well recognize your creation." She set the book aside.

"It… it was not...I did not intend…"

"I will tolerate great deal, even sketching garden plots to count plants if you cannot cipher properly. However, I draw the line at one thing. Do you know what that is?"

"No…miss…"

"Disrespect. Each one of you is here because you have failed in that very subject. You have all disrespected the morals and conventions of society, your parents and yourselves. It is one thing I simply will not tolerate." She lifted the top of her desk and removed a worn wooden ruler.

Lydia gasped. She would not—

"Extend your left hand, Lydia."

"No, miss! Please. I did not mean—"

"I am not interested. Extend your hand."

"I promise I will not—"

"Enough! Your hand." Miss Thornton pointed her boney finger.

Lydia trembled as she reached out her hand, palm up.

"Do not withdraw it until you are instructed or I shall send you to Mrs. Drummond for her cane."

Lydia squeaked something unintelligible. Her vision fogged with hot tears that coursed down hotter cheeks.

Miss Thornton brought her ruler down with a resounding thwack that echoed off the walls.

Lydia yelped, palm blazing.

"Contain your outburst, girl, it is unseemly." The ruler came down again.

Lydia bit her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, barely containing her exclamation. The effort only worked until the fifth blow. With the final three she cried out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Miss!"

"I am certain you are. Now," she pushed Lydia's journal at her, "return to your seat and finish your work."

Lydia pressed her throbbing hand to her belly and clutched her journal as she trudged to the back of the room.

"She's a terrible old hag." Joan whispered.

"You're lucky she was so easy on you." Amelia said without looking at her.

Why had they not defended her? It was their fault she was in trouble. She sniffled.

Joan pressed a handkerchief into her lap. Lydia dabbed her eyes with it, but ignored the two of them for the remainder of their lessons.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Lydia was the first one out the door when horrible Miss Thornton dismissed them from their lessons. She dashed to her room and shut the door behind her. Casting her ledger aside, she threw herself headlong on her bed and dissolved into a heap of sobs and misery.

Why had Miss Thornton been so mean? She had not meant to be disrespectful. Why had she hurt her so? If that was how a mere ruler stung, what must the cane be like? She would run away from this dreadful place before she ever allowed them to cane her!

And why had Joan and Amelia sat so idly by?

Another wave of despair overwhelmed her and she clutched her pillow to her belly. Curling around it, she gave into the great. wracking sobs until her throat ached.

"I am so sorry, Lydia."

She looked up. Through blurry, irritated eyes, she made out Juliana standing over her.

The sadness in her roommate's eyes only reminded her of the great ache in her heart and her weeping began anew.

Juliana sat beside her and rubbed her back, murmuring soft little soothing sounds as Jane had when Lydia was a little girl. Papa had rarely raised his voice, but his temper was a fearful thing. He said horrible, hurtful things to anyone who was near when he was angry. Lydia would hide in the attic and cry. Sometimes Jane would find her and comfort her.

"Miss Thornton can be very harsh at times and her ruler is very hard. Let me see your hand."

Lydia rolled to her side and extended her hand. Juliana traced the red marks with cool, pudgy fingers that looked like fat sausages, but they were very gentle.

"I dare say you will have a few bruises and it is already swollen, but I do not think there is anything lasting." She pressed a fresh handkerchief into Lydia's other hand. "Dry your eyes a bit. I will fetch a fresh compress for you." She waddled out of the room.

Lydia sat up and huddled over her lap, cradling her hand. It was red and puffy with lines from the rule's edge visible in places.

And it hurt.

No one had ever intentionally caused her pain before. Miss Thornton intentionally hurt her. How could she—she was so mean!

Hot tears trickled down her face. She dabbed them with the handkerchief.

The door swung open and Juliana appeared with a small basin. A vaguely vinegary- herbal smell wafted in with her. She trundled back to Lydia.

"Here, give me your hand now." Julian a wrung out an old flannel cloth from the basin and wrapped it around Lydia's palm.

"It is cold."

"It is meant to be. That will help it feel better." She smoothed wayward hairs back from Lydia's forehead. "No one has ever done more than scold you before?"

"No." Lydia stared at her wrapped hand. "I did not mean to be disrespectful. I was only sketching the toads that lived in Mrs. Collins' garden."

"A toad?" Juliana giggled. "You drew Miss Thornton as a toad? May I see?"

Lydia shrugged and pointed to her book on the floor.

"Oh, my! This is just like her. No wonder she was so very cross. I am not sure I would like to see my face on a toad either."

"I would not draw you as a toad."

"How would you draw me?"

"Give me a pencil."

Julian handed her a pencil and her ledger. With a few careful strokes she formed the image of a softly smiling duck with big eyes, wearing a fluffy mobcap.

Juliana turned it one way, then the other. "I like it very well indeed. Much better than being a toad for certain. I like that she smiles and has little feathers peeking from below her cap. I think her very dear indeed."

"Truly?"

"Yes, I have little reason to lie to you. After all, if I tell you I like, you will be apt to draw more and ask my opinion and pin then up on our walls. So were I to tell you I like them when I do not, I would pay a very high price for my falsehood."

"I suppose you are right. I never considered that." Lydia closed the book and set it aside.

"I have spent a lot of time thinking about such things, how consequences that seem surprising at the time might have been foreseen had I but taken the time to consider things first." She rested her hand on her belly.

"One cannot predict the future."

"No, but I am finding that if I pause to think about things or what others might think or feel, I can guess well enough that I am not scolded nearly so often."

"Scolded? You are Mrs. Drummond's favorite. I can hardly see her raising her eyebrow at you, much less her voice, or her cane." Lydia shuddered.

"I am not her favorite. She does not have favorites among us. I have been so ill—she is very generous in making allowances for that. But do not mistake that for favoritism. You can be quite sure that when I first came, I was called to her office often enough."

Lydia opened her mouth to protest, but the hints of anguish in Juliana's eyes stopped her. "How awful."

"It was."

"Did she…" Lydia glanced at her hand.

"Yes, and it was awful and I was stupid enough to provoke her to it more than once. And to use her cane as well. I thought her horrible and mean and unfair." Juliana winced.

"But she is."

Juliana shook her head. "The last time it happened, oh she was ever so severe with me. The hurt was awful. I hated her so. I could not sleep that night and went down to the kitchen for a compress. I heard Mrs. Drummond talking with someone. Foolish girl that I was, I though t she might have a gentleman caller and I wanted to see. I was certain she was a terrible hypocrite, doing the very things we were forbidden. So I hid in the hall and peeked in, certain I would catch her in the act."

"And? Who was there?"

"The vicar and his wife."

Lydia's eyes grew wide and she cocked her head.

"I cannot tell you how surprised I was, but it was them—no doubt. And Mrs. Drummond was weeping. It seemed she had been for quite some time."

"I had no idea she could."

"Neither did I at the time. But there it was in front of me. She spoke at length with the Weatherbys about 'her girls'…and about me."

"What did she say?" Lydia bit her knuckle.

"It was what she did not say that struck me. She did not say I was…any of those things my father called me. She did not insult me or question why she would be burdened to have me under her care. Not at all what I would have expected. What was more, she said she hated to be so severe with me—and that made her weep again."

Lydia sniffed. "I would have thought she enjoyed—"

"Well, she does not." Juliana snapped. "I had never considered that she—or anyone else—really had feelings, none that mattered anyway and seeing her seeking the Weatherbys' advice, it just made me think."

"What did they tell her?" Probably to be stricter and cane the girls more.

"That surprised me too. He said, 'Remember the parable of the shepherd, the Good Lord left the ninety and nine to search after the one. Bringing back a lost lamb is never easy, but when it returns home, that is cause to celebrate.' I though how pleasing it would be to be a reason for celebration rather than weeping." Juliana shrugged and waddled to the window and sighed, but her voice seemed a little tight.

Lydia stared at her. Perhaps she should say something, but what?

"I am sorry. I have talked far too much about myself when you are the one suffering." Juliana turned to face her.

"N…no…it is quite all right."

"You wish to be alone?"

"For a little while. We are to visit the workhouse to teach the children soon and…"

"You need to gather yourself. I should have thought of that." Juliana tiptoed out.

Lydia wandered the writing desk. Maybe Miss Thornton was shocked to see her toady-portrayal. But was that any reason to beat her like a servant? Old Thorny Patch could have just said she did not like it and not to do it again. How was Lydia to know what would offend? It was not as though others wore their thoughts and feeling on a card about their necks. She giggled a little at the image.

Still, how was it Lizzy always seemed to always seemed to know what someone thought or feel? Everyone remarked at how very good Lizzy was at that. Is that what she was supposed to do? Turn into Elizabeth?

She would never be able to do that. She was only a silly little girl—that's what Papa always called her. She was silly—and stupid and foolish and not capable of anything but being pretty—and maybe drawing teacher-toads. She put her head down on the desk and wept.

Lydia kept to herself for the next several days, speaking little to anyone and entirely ignoring Joan and Amelia. Sunday morning, Mrs. Drummond called Juliana away before chores began, so she was left entirely on her own to clean. It was some small consolation though that Juliana was set to mend linens instead. In fact, the only chores she did anymore were those she could do sitting down.

Church was dull as usual, but the vicar was not as bad as Mr. Collins—at least he told funny stories.

On the way back to the school, Joan and Amelia wove their way through the line to walk with her.

"Droll as ever today, the vicar was." Joan said.

"I so hate the stupid little stories he tells. Always trying to make him and his children sound so good, like a little parable for us all to learn from." Amelia smiled beatifically and batted her eyes.

Lydia said nothing and kept her eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Oh, do not be like this, Lydia." Joan slipped her arm in Lydia's

Amelia did the same on the other side. "Do not take your anger at Old Thorny Patch out on us."

"She would never have seen anything but for the fuss you made." Lydia muttered.

Joan squeezed her arm. "You know she never misses anything—she would have seen it when she came along to check our work."

"I dare say she would have been even more cross then!" Amelia tossed her head. "At least she did not send you down to Mrs. Drummond."

"Why did you not tell her it was not a drawing of her? You should have."

"Contradicted her and gotten a taste of her ruler too? What good would that have done any of us?" Amelia huffed.

"You know how she is. It probably would have only made things worse for all of us. You know she does not listen to reason when she is angry." Joan's voice thinned into an annoying little whine.

Perhaps that was true. But Papa was far more unreasonable than Miss Thornton and Lizzy often changed his mind—or did she? It seemed like she did at the time…but maybe Papa became angry at her instead.

Joan tugged her arm, "Please say you are not angry at us anymore."

"Oh do! It has been so dreadful dull with you snubbing us so. It is like being cut by the _ton_ when you turn your back on us." Amelia said.

"Oh, all right." Lydia harrumphed. "But you must promise—"

"Oh, we do! We do!" Joan squealed, a sound every bit as annoying as her whine.

"We will not look at your drawing in class ever gain. But you must promise to shown them all to us in the evenings when the teachers are not about."

"You want to see them?"

"Of course we do. They are so very clever." Joan said.

"And we have so little to entertain us here. Truly, what is there to laugh at and enjoy? I dare say your sketches might be the very high points of our week."

Could she truly bring such enjoyment to her friends? That would be a wonderful thing." I will agree then."

Joan and Amelia grabbed hands and cried, "How wonderful!"

Mrs. Drummond glanced back at them, a severe expression on her face.

But of course she would disapprove. She never approved of anything pleasing.

Lydia glanced over her shoulder.

As usual, Mr. Amberson followed them. He shared Mrs. Drummond's somber mien. While he often looked thoughtful, he rarely looked so…heavy. What troubled him so?

"We are going to play knucklebones this afternoon. Say you will play with us." Joan pressed her hands together, pleading.

"You are so much more fun than Ruth who is forever whinging about this thing or that." Amelia rolled her eyes.

"I would like that." Lydia smiled. It was nice to have her friends back. Even just a few days without them were very lonely indeed.

Lydia won several games in a row and Amelia declared herself excessively tired. She excused herself to go upstairs and rest. Joan pleaded boredom with the game and insisted on choosing another, but they could not agree. So they went their own ways.

Why did Sunday afternoons have to be so dull? She would work on her sampler, but it was too fine a day just to sit. The garden—she had not checked on Mr. Birch in some time. She should make sure he was still at his post.

The trees had lost what leaves remained and the late afternoon breeze nipped at her neck and ears. She should have thought to get her shawl. Winter would be upon them soon. What were winters like in this part of the country?

Mr. Birch peeked out form the heather stalks, still well-hid by their bushy tendrils. No one had claimed to have discovered him yet, though she had heard Ruth telling Miss Greenville that she thought she had seen a creature living in the heather. She pressed her hand to her mouth and giggled.

"I see our friend is still on duty."

She jumped. Why was he forever doing that? How could so awkward a man walk so quietly she never heard his approach? "Yes, he is, sir."

A small gust of wind danced past, rustling the plants and raising gooseflesh on her shoulders.

"Winter will be upon us soon." She said.

Mr. Amberson did not look at her. He stared first into the heather, then at the sky.

What was wrong? Was not the weather an acceptable topic for conversation? "I do not think the winter is a very pleasant season, unless there is snow, for that is very pretty. Is there a great deal of snowfall here?"

He clasped his hands behind his back and chewed his upper lip. "I am troubled, Miss Bennet."

Lydia blinked. Why would he tell her such a thing, unless…

"I have been speaking with Miss Thornton."

A sick little knot tied itself in her belly. What had Old Thorny patch told him?

"She told me of your drawing in class. It pained her greatly..."

"I did not mean it."

"…to have to punish you so harshly."

"It did?" Surely he was wrong.

"She thinks rather well of you, you know, and it distressed her to find you so…"

"Disrespectful," she whispered.

"Easily distracted."

She traced circles in the dirt with her toes.

"I feel I am somewhat at fault here."

"How sir?"

"I encouraged you to draw, but offered not guidance, no structure."

"How so?"

"One's art is a powerful thing, Miss Bennet, a gift, which by its very natures moves and influences others. It requires careful management or it has the power to wound both the artist and his audience."

"I do not understand."

"Are you familiar with the woks of the great satirists of our day? Rowlandson, Gilray, Cruikshank?

Lydia blushed hot. Wickham had taken her to see the print shop windows with the indelicate prints—some quite scandalous—in their windows. Worse still, the prints had fascinated her, not just because they illustrated things she had never seen or even thought of, but for their artistry.

"Their work often features unflattering portrayals of powerful people. Those who are so featured are rarely pleased to find themselves so. How would you like to find yourself portrayed in a show window?"

Her eyes budged—laughed and gawked at—how dreadful.

"Some say those artists serve a vital role, forcing us to look at the absurdities we otherwise ignore. But consider, in France, not so very long ago, such men might easily have met their fate at the national razor for their depictions.

Lydia gasped. "Surely not."

"Ask Mrs. Drummond, perhaps when you have your next French lesson. She lived in France for a time and might be willing to speak of the experience."

"She never speaks of it."

"There is a reason." He chewed his lip again. "If you have been given an artist's gifts it is incumbent upon you to steward it well for it touches the human heart and causes us to reflect. The process is not without risk to us all. But we must match the risk to the reward we gain."

"I am confused."

"I would expect you to be yet." He reached into his coat and removed a worn journal. He pressed it into her hands. "A book for you sketches. I used it for a time for my own drawings before I realized music was my true medium. I tore out those pages, so you might begin afresh."

She flipped though the blank pages, edges a bit tattered and dirty. How could something so old and worn be so precious?

"Collect your sketches here, not on your lessons. Then you may show them to me and we might discuss them."

"I would like that very much. May I show them—"

"To others? They are your creations, Miss Bennet. You may do with them as you will. But be careful, not everyone appreciates an artists creations. Some are very quick to criticize and such words wound with a poignancy few can match. Others would seek to use our creations for their own gain. Guard your heart wisely, for it is the well spring of life."

"Thank you sir, I will." She pressed the book to her chest.

"I have faith in you." He tipped his hand and ambled off, heaviness sloughing off with each too long step.

What an odd, dear fellow.

And what a lovely gift. She turned the book over in her hands. Oh a little pencil, well used, was tuck in the bindings.

She flipped to the first page and lowered herself to the ground. She chuckled as the image of Mr. Birch, as a man, not tree bark—formed, dancing on the deck of his ship. She took great pains to insure he looked nothing like any person she actually knew.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The next morning after chores and breakfast, the girls made their way to the school room for Miss Honeywell's lessons. Lydia's stomach clenched a little—she had not been back to the school room since Miss Thornton—she rubbed her left palm. There would be no toads today.

She slid into her seat well before Joan and Amelia. Miss Honeywell would have them write today, so she checked her pen. The tip was still very fresh—she wrote with a light hand and did not spoil her pens quickly. Miss Honeywell approved of that.

Joan and Amelia rushed in just before Miss Honeywell shut the door, stifling giggles before they took their seats.

"Today we shall begin by writing a letter. Select a passage from _Hints on the Gentle Art of Letter Writing_ and use it in your letter, attending carefully to the elegance of your hand. Make it of interest to the reader, bearing pleasant tidings and no requests for money or complaints about your accommodations here." Her voice turned sharp.

Two girls near the front of the room blushed and looked away from her. Joan snorted. This was a story she would have to inquire after tonight.

"When you have finished, bring your letter to me."

The passage of choice was easy enough. The book contained a short writing on the changing of the seasons. She could pen that easily enough, but to whom? If she did not come up with an acceptable correspondent, Miss Honeywell would probably make her write to Papa or Mr. Darcy.

She chewed her lip. Mr. Darcy would probably return her letter overwritten with red ink to correct her errors. And Papa...what would Papa do? Maybe he would read it, but perhaps he would burn it unread.

No, she could not write to him—and not Mama nor Kitty either. And she did not have the direction to Jane and Mr. Bingley who should be married now…but she did know Mary's direction! She stayed at Mrs. Collins' house waiting to be married in Kent.

_Dear sister Mary…_

She dutifully copied the passage on the changing seasons, changing a word or two to make it her own. What else would Mary be interested in? It was not as if life at Mrs. Drummond's school afforded many wonderful experiences to convey. Chores, charity work and lessons, none were of particular interest. Mr. Michaels, her betrothed, would be a steward…perhaps accounts and ledgers and preserving peas?

Joan giggled and slid a piece of paper from Amelia toward Lydia. It bore a rough drawing of a round little pig with hair drawn up in a knot so tight its eyes were pulled wide open. Underneath in tiny letters was 'Honey-ham'. Lydia' gasped and held her breath to suppress her initial giggle.

The drawing, while funny, was not very good. Without the caption, she might not have recognized who it portrayed. The proportions of the face did not capture Miss Honeywell properly. The cheeks—

What was she thinking?

She thrust the paper back at Joan, but she passed it to at her again. "Fix it; it is not quite right."

"No." Lydia shoved it back.

"Please."

"No, I will not draw teachers any more."

"Just this once…"

"Is there a problem?" Miss Honeywell stood and folded her arms over her chest.

Lydia rose. "No, Miss. I…I was wondering if…if I might include a sketch…in my letter…to my sister…of…of the garden?"

"Have you written a proper missive already? Bring it here."

Lydia grabbed her letter with shaky hands and slid the sketch back to Joan. She swallowed hard as she made her way to the front of the room.

Miss Honeywell snatched the letter from her hands, but the lines on her face melted as the corner of her lips barely crept up. "Can you tell me why your sister might be interested in ledgers and accounts?"

"She is going to marry the steward of a large estate. She is very practical, not romantic at all. I …I though he must talk about such things very often."

Several girls giggled.

Miss Honeywell looked as if she might as well. "A fair enough reason, I will grant you and good enough work to be considered complete. You may begin your drawing lesson with a sketch on this letter."

Murmurs spread through the room.

"Thank you, Miss." The words tumbled out in a heady rush. "May I…may I sit near the window so I can look at the garden while I sketch it?"

"You may."

Lydia curtsied and hurried back to fetch her pencil. Joan pouted and glared. She did not need to be so cross. What had she lost by Lydia's request?

What a stroke of good luck to have such an idea. Lydia stationed herself at the writing desk near the window and studied the view.

She titled the page: _The garden, changing seasons—from the school room window._

The garden was not the most interesting thing to draw, especially now with no leaves or blossoms to render but it was far less tedious than copying passages from what someone else had written.

Sometime later she felt someone staring over her shoulder. Miss Honeywell stood behind her, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her paper.

"An admirable effort, but your perspective is flawed." She pointed to several spots in the drawing and placed a fresh sheet of paper on the writing desk. "Your pencil please." With several quick strokes, she created guidelines and roughly penciled in the fence and gazebo according to the guidelines.

"I see! Oh, oh! I see!" Lydia took the pencil and began copying the technique beside Miss Honeywell's example. "Please, Miss, might I being the letter again, with a proper drawing this time."

"You wish to recopy what you have written?"

"Oh yes, please. I do not wish to send them such a flawed picture."

"Very well, you may stay then and redo it after I have finished the instruction in reading." An odd little smile crept across Miss Honeywell's lips. She turned to the class. "Now, I wish you to read aloud in turns from Fordyce. Miss Bennet," she handed Lydia the tome. "Please begin on page one hundred twenty two."

Lydia read her page aloud, but her mind whirled with her new understanding of drawing perspective.

She barely heard the rest of the reading and hardly contained herself until Miss Honeywell announced 'dismissed' and she could return to Mary's letter.

Juliana appeared at the schoolroom door. "Do hurry and get your wrap and bonnet, it is nearly time for us to leave."

"Already?" Lydia set her pencil aside. "I have only just finished my letter."

"You have missed luncheon and Mrs. Drummond sent us all to prepare to visit the alms houses. She will be frightful cross if you dawdle."

"Must she always be cross about something?" Lydia placed her letter on the teacher's desk. "I am coming."

Missing luncheon was disagreeable, but she just had to get the perspective right on the gazebo though it took her three tries to accomplish. Mary was fond of such structures and would appreciate seeing it properly.

She followed Juliana downstairs, tying her bonnet on the way. They were the last ones to gather in the front hall. Mrs. Drummond reprimanded them with just her eyes.

"I cannot walk fast." Juliana murmured.

Mrs. Drummond grumbled, but her sharp expression faded. "Go to the kitchen and pick up the baskets Cook has prepared and assemble outside."

Lydia found Joan and Amelia, who hung to the back of the group, and ducked between them.

Amelia grabbed her arm. "Wait, do not be in a hurry."

"If we are fortunate, all the baskets will be taken before we get to the kitchen," Joan whispered.

"Cook always overfills them and they are so heavy. I do not see why we should be bringing our things to poor widows. The money paid to Mrs. Drummond for our upkeep ought to be spent upon us." Amelia turned up her nose.

She had a point. They might hire another maid to help with the chores or eat nicer food if Mrs. Drummond spent her funds differently. Being here was bad enough. Why should the headmistress make it worse for all of them? It really was not fair.

But even Lady Catherine sent baskets around to the cottagers—there was always extra food from her table going around the neighborhood. Lizzy said she even sent baskets around to the bigger farms when there was sickness about and Lady Catherine was hardly the charitable sort. Last spring, Mrs. Collins chose to forgo fancy trim on her new dress so she could buy fabric to make children's clothes for the parish poor.

"I was right!" Joan elbowed Lydia. "All the baskets are taken and we shall be free of the burden."

Pleasant thought indeed, especially since her hand was still sore form Miss Thornton's ministrations. One spot in particular still hurt whenever she touched it.

The girls gathered outside the back door and Mrs. Drummond led them off. Juliana trudged just ahead of Lydia, both hands awkwardly clutching a heavy basked that kept bouncing against her belly. Not a quarter mile down the road, she lagged behind the group.

Lydia looked over her shoulder several times. Juliana kept falling further back, stopping every dozen steps to catch her breath.

Lydia huffed. "Botheration." She turned around.

"Where are you going?" Joan called.

Lydia trotted to Juliana. "Give me the basket."

"No, no, I should carry my share." Juliana pulled back, her face red and sweat trickling down her neck.

"At this rate you will not arrive before dark."

"Then you do not need to wait for me—go on."

"No, you are not supposed to do heavy work. Mrs. Drummond will probably punish me for allowing you to carry it and I do not relish the thought. So give it to me." She pulled the basket away from Juliana.

Gracious it was heavy and it hurt her hand!

"Thank you," Julian stooped over and panted again.

Miss Thornton came up behind them. "It is too far for you to walk today. Go back to the house. Cook has charity clothes for you to sew."

"No, no, I can…"

"Do not argue, go." She pointed to the house.

"Yes, Miss" Juliana tried to curtsey but nearly lost her balance.

"Catch up with the others now," Miss Thornton said, her voice much more pleasant than usual. Was that a smile? No surely not—that woman clearly could not manage such an expression.

Lydia trudged back to Joan and Amelia.

"Clever of you." Amelia's eyebrows flashed up.

"Trying to gain favor with Miss Thornton or Mrs. Drummond?" Joan leaned close and winked.

"Oh, just help me carry this, it is heavy." Lydia extended the basket towards them.

They jumped back, hands in the air.

"I would not want to take away the favor for which you have worked so hard" Amelia sniffed and quickened her pace.

"And my hands are raw from scrubbing the steps this week. I have no wish to carry anything today." Joan said.

Lydia grumbled under her breath as they hurried ahead. Miss Thornton would have sent Juliana back in any case and she would have been called to take the basket anyway. Why did Juliana have to be such a bother?

The groups stopped at a bend in the road near the parish alms houses. Her arms, shoulders and back ached. Why did Joan and Amelia keep looking back at her and laughing until Miss High-and-Mighty shushed them?

Mrs. Drummond arranged them in three groups to make their visits. Perhaps if she were lucky she might be grouped with Joan and Amelia and not Miss High-and-Mighty.

She peeked at Mrs. Drummond. What luck, she was distracted by Miss Honeywell.

Lydia wove through the group to Joan. "Where is Amelia?"

Joan pressed her fingers to her lips and kept her gaze focused toward Mrs. Drummond. Lydia peeked over heads and between shoulders. "Where is she?"

"Stop that—someone will notice." Joan whispered." She accompanied Juliana back to the school."

"No she did not—"

"Hush now!" Joan pinched her arm.

"Lydia, bring your basket and join Miss Fitzgilbert." Mrs. Drummond beckoned her forward.

Would nothing go her way today? She huffed, softly so as not to attract Mrs. Drummond's notice, and stalked toward Miss Fitzgilbert.

"Oh, you got the basket meant for two to carry. You should have had help. Let me…" Miss Fitzgilbert grabbed one of the handles.

"Can we set it down?"

"Not here, the road dirt is quite foul. Here, take my basket and I will hold this one for a bit." She passed Lydia a smaller basket with her free hand and they traded loads.

"Thank you."

"Why did you try and take it alone?"

"Juliana had it first, so I thought it was for one. I took it from her."

Miss Fitzgilbert looked skyward and shook her head. "She tries to do too much, but I am surprised she did not help you with it."

"Miss Thornton sent her back to the school. I asked Joan and Amelia for help, but…"

Miss Fitzgilbert snorted and rolled her eyes. "I see."

Miss Greenville and Ruth Sommers joined them.

"I think we are going to the House of Three Widows." Miss Greenville said. Her basket was piled high with linens and a blanket.

"I do not like them very much." Ruth said, voice low, glancing over her shoulder toward the teachers conferring with Mrs. Drummond. "Widow Barnes scares me."

"Why?" Lydia's eyes grew wide.

"The poor old woman is hard of hearing and nearly blind." Miss Fitzgilbert edged toward Miss Greenville who took one handle of the large basket. "She stands very close to you and speaks very loudly, but she means no ill."

"At least her breath is not as terrible as Widow Randalls. Her teeth are so rotten—do not let her breathe too close to you." Ruth snickered.

"Widow March and her granddaughter are very gentle and kind though. They always like it if we sing to them." Miss Greenville said softly, her eyes a little sad.

Mrs. Drummond waved at them. "Come along girls."

Ruth came alongside Lydia as they followed Mrs. Drummond. "Has anyone warned you not to ask impertinent questions whilst we visit?"

"No, nothing of the sort."

Ruth smiled tightly. "I am not surprised. _They_ think it amusing to allow others to wander into trouble, but I fancy no more encounters with Mrs. Drummond's cane. So, watch what you say. Do not ask personal questions of their circumstances or their pasts. That is far too intimate, and Mrs. Drummond considers it rude. If they wish to speak of it, listen politely and make the right and proper responses: indeed, is that so, how interesting and the like. Do not pry further than they volunteer."

"I am…am glad to know." Lydia said.

"And do not stare. It is quite rude and Widow Randalls is quite sensitive to it. She becomes offended quite easily."

"Anything else?"

"One final thing. Do not accept anything Widow March offers you. She is rather…touched and does not realize what she is doing."

"Touched?"

"She is simple, like a child. You do not need to be afraid of her."

Lydia swallowed hard. The little cottage stood before them, plain and dingy, shutters hanging askew and weeds growing up in the tiny unkempt yard. A tattered garden plot stood off to the side, as if not on speaking terms with the cottage. A sharp breeze with the promise of autumn on it cut between the girls. Her heart quickened to the pace she wished her feet could carry her back to the school.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Lydia?" Mrs. Drummond stood at her elbow, her face a mix of ire and something softer, but less clear.

She tried to gasp out a response, but it tangled in her tight throat and came out more like a sob.

"Take a deep breath, and another. Any better?"

Lydia nodded more because she should than because she agreed. If she had to go back in that house, she might never breathe again. "How…how can they live like that?"

"Excuse me?"

"The smells, the miasma. Is not the place full of disease?"

"Something you learned from your father?"

She gulped another breath of fresh air. "He was most emphatic. He would not tolerate…" Her throat closed around her words.

"I see."

"Why do they not…"

"Because they cannot. They can neither afford to do differently nor have they the strength for the tasks if they could."

"But…but…"

"You know how much effort and strength housekeeping requires. Sand, soap, coal to heat water, it all costs money that these women can ill-afford."

"Please, please do not make me go back in there. I shall cast up my accounts for certain if I do and that would be awful...and more to clean." She glanced back at the cottage and trembled.

"It is not fair to allow the other girls to do all the work. They are all inside helping to clean and mend and cheer the widows. Why should you alone be permitted to take your ease?"

Lydia looked around. "I…I could work out here perhaps? The yard is full of weeds…and look there…the garden has not been prepared for winter. I could work on that if they have a few tools."

"Working on the garden would be of material value to them and the rest are so engaged inside, the garden will not be tended otherwise. I am willing to permit you to stay outside and do garden chores. But understand, if I find you have shirked your duties, the consequences will be most severe."

Had she any ideas of being lazy, Mrs. Drummond's expression would have changed her mind. "Yes, madam. You will not find it so."

"I count on it. Come." Mrs. Drummond led her to a ramshackle shed and pulled the door. It groaned and shuddered and threatened to come apart with the effort. "Whatever they have for the garden is here. Work quickly and get as much done as you can." Mrs. Drummond dusted off her hands and returned to the cottage.

Lydia rummaged in the shed. Dust swirled around her and she sneezed. At least this place smelled of earth and growing things. A rake, a hoe, a shovel—worn and rusty—but they would suffice.

Mama had been a fine gardener. Her flowers always drew admirers, but her true brilliance was in her kitchen garden. Every vegetable, every herb seemed to flourish under her hand. Although she kept a gardener to help with the heaviest labor, she still did much of it herself, and insisted her daughters all help.

Lydia picked up the hoe. How comfortable and familiar the weight in her hands, breaking up tough roots and clods of dry dirt. Some of her happiest memories were of her and Kitty and Mary, all laboring under Mama's tutelage, taming the unkempt garden into a thing of beauty. She hummed a song under her breath.

Soft steps shuffled behind her. "That be a pretty tune, dearie." A tiny, crooked, raisin of a woman, stared at her with tiny dark eyes. She leaned on a walking stick as gnarled as she.

Lydia paused in her work. "My…my mother taught it to me. We used to sing it when we worked in the garden."

"Did I know your mother?"

"I…I do not think so. She has never been to Summerseat."

"I have not either." The old woman shook her head. "No I have not, and I have no need to either. I like my little village well enough, you know. Burlington is quite good enough for me. I have no need to go traipsing about the country, gadding about here and there you see."

This must be the touched widow Ruth mentioned and she looked of a mind to continue talking too. "Winter is coming you know, and the garden is in need of much work. Do you mind if I work while you talk?"

"Not at all, dearie, not at all. I would not keep you from it. I could not live with being the cause of your wee ones to go hungry." She tottered closer.

"My what?" Lydia brought the hoe down a might harder than necessary.

"Your little ones, How many do you have not? It is three or four?"

Heavens who did the think she was? She, with children? "I…I…"

"I should think your eldest now big enough to be of some use to you out here. You don't go coddling the boy now—you hear." She wagged a bony finger at Lydia.

"Yes…"

"I tell you, missy, as soon as mine were short-coated, I set them to work I did. I'd tie their leading strings to the fence posts or the furniture and set them to something useful whilst I worked. No idle hands you see, no idle hands."

"No, not at all."

"Here, here, give me that rake. Cannot bear being idle now, neither." She pointed and held out her hand. Lydia placed the broken toothed rake in her grasp.

What would Mrs. Drummond say about this?

"I am happy to do this for you. Do not hurt yourself. You should—"

"I am sure you are, you are such a good girl, dearie, but do not deny an old soul her satisfaction." She scratched at the dirt with her rake, though she accomplished little.

At least she seemed pleased with her efforts and hummed the tune Lydia had hummed earlier. Ruth had said she liked singing. Lydia began to sing the only verse she remembered.

The widow joined in the chorus, her voice thin and raspy, but clearly pleased. Lydia stopped after the chorus, but the widow continued with a verse she had never heard. They sang another chorus together, which led into another verse. After four new verses, the old woman insisted they sing again to be sure Lydia learnt them all properly.

Halfway through, several more voices joined them. Miss Greenville, a ragged woman who must be the widow's granddaughter and Mrs. Drummond herself. She had a rich, melodious voice that fit the song well. As they sang, each one took up a task and the remaining work was finished in a final repetition of the song.

As the last notes faded into the rapidly cooling evening air, Lydia gathered the tools and returned them to the shed. She turned back toward Mrs. Drummond, but the widow stopped her.

"Here, have this." She thrust a dirty pebble at Lydia.

"I…I...no, I cannot."

"I know it is very fine, dearie, but I want you to have it, to remember our little song and the old woman who taught you."

"But I have nothing to give you."

"You have already given me enough. A fine afternoon with music—promise to teach the song to your wee ones and it is enough."

"I promise."

The widow dropped the cold stone into Lydia's hand and folded her fingers closed around it. "Treasure it as I have." She tottered off toward the cottage.

Mrs. Drummond approached, her brow drawn into knots.

Lydia opened her hand and shrugged.

Mrs. Drummond picked up the stone and brushed some dirt away. It was pinkish with dark spots and shiny flecks. "It is only a garden stone." She handed it back to Lydia.

"Shall I put it back?"

"No, I believe she would be pleased for you to keep it." Mrs. Drummond twitched her head toward the cottage.

The old woman stood in the doorway watching them.

Lydia tucked the pebble into her apron pocket and waved at the widow. She waved back.

"Come girls, we must make haste if we are to return home before dark. The others have already left."

Miss Fitzgilbert handed her an empty basked and Miss Greenville pressed a handkerchief into her hand.

"You have dust on your cheek."

Lydia wiped it away.

"It was good of you to work in the garden." Ruth said softly.

"I…it was?"

"That is the worst job of all. We would all rather avoid it, if we could. Much better to toil in the house."

"It did not bother you?" Lydia handed the handkerchief back.

"Why should it? It is far less unpleasant than all that dirt under one's fingernails and the blisters on your hands."

Lydia held her hands out before her. "I am used to it, I suppose. Those things do not bother me."

"In that case," Miss Greenville nudged her with her elbow, "we shall have to make sure to pay our visits with you every time."

"You carry heavy baskets and toil in the garden, what more could want in a companion to the Alms houses?" Miss Fitzgilbert took back the empty basket. "In fact, for such a companion, I shall carry the basket home for you."

"Tha…thank you." Miss Fitzgilbert smiled so pleasantly. Who would have thought she could do so.

"So what was the secret Widow Randalls was so intent on telling you?" Ruth asked.

Miss Fitzgilbert rolled her eyes. "She has a special receipt to sweeten the breath. She thought I might benefit from it."

Miss Greenville laughed first, but soon they all doubled over, tears in their eyes.

Several days later, Lydia sat in the music room at the pianoforte. Mr. Amberson should arrive soon for her lesson. He had offered her an extra lesson during the week when time permitted. While it meant more practice and more pieces to try and commit to memory, he looked so pleased to offer it, she could not turn it down.

She plinked her way through yet another dreadful scale. Why did he torture her with something so dreadful and tedious? Perhaps if she played them with a lively rhythm? It was a little better, but not much. Gah! She brought her elbows down on the keys.

"That is most definitely not the next note in the scales, Miss Bennet."

Of course, he was watching her. Why did he always have to see her impatience? He glowered until she removed her elbows.

"I am sorry, sir." She hung her head. Would he be very angry at the way she abused the instrument? The other music master she had known would probably have caned her hand with his baton for doing that. The back of her neck twitched and she clutched her hands together.

Mr. Amberson pulled a chair close to the pianoforte and sat down. "You do not like playing scales very much?"

"No, sir."

"Nor learning them, I imagine."

"No."

"Why?"

She curled her lip. "They are dull and unimaginative. They must be played just so and there is no room for anything pretty or gay. I hate memorizing them."

"Why? It is not hard for you. You are not stupid." He held her gaze, steady, eyebrows rising slightly as if to ask a question.

"Yes I am." She tossed her head. He already knew, what matter that she say it, too?

"I can hardly agree. Why would you say that?"

"My Papa—"

"No, I did not ask why someone else might say so, but why would you?"

"Oh." She chewed her lower lip. "I cannot cipher properly—I must draw it before I can understand. I get confused with directions and do things out of order. And I hate to read—I care nothing for history or geography and I despise Shakespeare." She braced her elbows on the top of the pianoforte and covered her face with her hands. Now he would scold her for certain.

"I do not see what ciphering has to do with being stupid. You can look up what you need in a table or work it out in a sketch, can you not?"

"Y…yes. But it is not the right way."

"What matter the way you come by the correct answer, if you are able to do so?"

"Papa does not think that."

"Is he always right?"

She peeked at him, into rich blue eyes, wide and kind and sincere.

"Please forgive me, but I hardly think that one man can be right in all his opinions. And as to reading, I have seen you in the parlor with a novel and you seemed very well pleased. So you do not prefer subjects dry and dull. How do such preferences render you without intelligence?"

She shrugged. "I never considered that."

"Perhaps you should. Now as to scales…" He moved closer to rest his hands on the keyboard and began to play a scale. "I cannot argue, they are dry and boring and I have never known a single student who relished the study."

"Then why? I can hardly think it improves one's learning to be tortured simply because the master can order it."

He played a sour note and stopped, features crumpling. "Think you so little of me, Miss Bennet? Do you honestly believe that of my character, my nature?" He folded his arms over his chest.

She bowed her head. "No, I do not."

"Then why would you say such a thing?"

"Because I do not understand why you do this."

"And?"

"And the only reason I can think is that it is fun to be mean." She cringed. Please let him not yell too loudly.

"You could ask me why." His voice barely rose over a whisper.

"Excuse me?"

"Ask me—do not assume you know my mind."

"I…no…would that not be impertinent?"

"As impertinent as defaming my character with your flawed impressions? I hardly think so."

"And you would not be angry with me for asking?"

"Far less so than I am now."

She jumped and slid the piano stool away.

"I may be angry, but I hardly deserve that from you." He crossed his arms before his chest, a small scar on his forehead caught in a deep crease, like a tightly knotted shoe lace.

She gasped and pressed her fist to her mouth.

He studied her and she squirmed under his gaze. Why did he not just rail at her and be done with it?

"Whoever made you so afraid, I am not he."

She dropped her gaze and whispered, "I know."

"Then show me that you can believe better of me. Ask me why I make you learn scales."

She bit her lip and screwed her eyes shut.

"Miss Bennet." His voice became firm and a little frightening.

She peeked through her lashes and he extended his hand toward her. She reached toward him and he locked his fingertips with hers. "Ask me."

"Why must I learn scales, sir?" Her voice was very small.

"There is not a music student who has not asked that question. I hated learning and playing scales until I discovered their true nature."

"Their nature, sir?"

"I have taught you chords, have I not? Consider them as words. You know but a few right now, correct?"

"Yes."

"So, like a small child, you can converse, but with only small words, and only small things. But that is not enough for you, is it? You want to speak more, you need not just words, but an alphabet from which to form your words. Scales are that alphabet. They allow you to decipher what you are hearing and create it yourself. They contain the fundamental structure, the foundation of music itself. They will teach you how to set a mood and express a tone. If you find them dull as they are, then once you have committed them to memory, you may play them in patterns of thirds or fifths, in intervals, or interesting rhythms. Focus on hearing them like the guideline sketches you use when you draw. They set the directions, the boundaries, giving initial shape and form to what you create."

He waved her to place her hands next to his and they played the scale together.

"I had no idea."

"Of course, no student does. That is why you must trust your master."

"I…I do…"

He sighed and shook his head. "You trust that I am a better musician than you and that I have something to teach you."

"Is that not trust?"

"It is, but I wish for more than that."

She edged away. "I do not understand."

"I wish for you to trust my character, Miss Bennet. Trust that when I ask something of you it is for your good, not mine. Trust that I would not knowingly hurt you."

She rose and walked to the window, a knot in her stomach.

He sighed and played a soft melody. Its minor notes weaving with the sadness and fear, bringing it to the surface, so close, she could see it clearly for the first time.

"What have I done to make you so afraid of me?"

"I do not know."

"Yes, you do." He stood very close to her. "Tell me."

"You are a teacher…you are in charge of me. You get angry."

"So you expect I will hurt you because I am in a place of authority?"

She bit her lip and nodded.

"Have I ever raised my voice to you? Spoken harshly in anger to you?"

"You took Ruth to Mrs. Drummond."

"And she was punished."

Lydia shuddered and nodded.

"And you are terrified that I might grow unexpectedly angry at you and you might suffer the same fate?"

She sniffled.

"Am I so wholly unpredictable? I thought I have been a paragon of virtue where those things that are apt to anger music masters are concerned. Have I ever punished any of you for failure to practice or learn or for poor performance? Think on it. When have I become angry?"

"Ruth was disrespectful…and when Penelope lied to you…"

"Are those unjust moments for anger? Did I not give them both ample warning and opportunity to choose a different course?"

"You did."

"Yet, they did not relent. Even then, did I speak hurtfully to them?"

"No."

"That is right. I even warned them of what my Aunt Drummond would do if they did not change their course. And still they chose."

"Would you…would you take me to Mrs. Drummond?"

"Would you force me to do it? And if you pushed me that hard, would you respect me if I did not?"

She turned to look at him. He leaned against the window frame, the sun on one side of his face threw the other side into shadow. He was not a handsome man, but the earnestness in his eyes rendered him more pleasing than his features would have allowed.

"I do not know."

"I do. I think you have known far too many people who are not apt to say what they mean and are easily swayed by one display or another. I am not clever enough for that. I can only say what I mean and nothing more. I have told you what I expect from you and I will let you know if you fall short."

She dodged past him and ran several steps, but stopped in the middle of the room.

He caught up in two long steps. "We all fail and fall short. It is not the same as deliberate defiance. It is not unforgivable."

She held her breath, forcing back a little sob.

"I am neither so easily damaged nor such a hypocrite that I dare be intolerant of another's shortcomings…even yours."

She peeked at him, though her eyes were gritty and blurry.

"Trust me, just a little, please. Will you show me your drawings? You left your sketchbook on the pianoforte, so I thought you might have something to show me."

She swallowed hard and nodded. "They are not very good, I think."

She opened the book. "This is Mr. Birch in the garden, and this is Ruth telling of a creature she thought she saw there."

He turned the page. "And this?"

A dark image of faces, rooms, shadows and scribbles stared at her. She tried to flip past it, but he held the place.

"That is nothing, really—it is terrible. Please do not look at it."

"It is very interesting. Something troubled you beyond words and you were able to speak it here." He traced a tortured face amidst the darkness.

"It is ugly."

"Not ugly, evocative. Not all art is beautiful, just as all human experience is not comfortable. It reflects the totality of our existence, pleasant and unpleasant. I am pleased you dared capture it. Was this after you visited the alms houses?"

She nodded.

He placed his hands on the keyboard and played a dark melody, haunted and torturous.

"That is exactly how I felt," she whispered.

"You see then, I have understood. You have communicated something of the human condition without a single word. What have your friends said of it?"

"Joan and Amelia? I have not shown them."

"Why not?"

"They have not wanted to talk about that day. I imagine their experiences were as unpleasant as mine."

"They did not visit the same house as you?"

"No. Joan went with Miss Thornton. I imagine Amelia went with the other group."

"You do not know?"

"No, I did not see her. Perhaps she went back with Juliana to help her and did not want to flaunt her good fortune. That is what Joan suggested."

"So you truly have no idea of what she did?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just curious I suppose. I thought them good friends of yours. I expected you would stay close to them."

She shrugged. "Mrs. Drummond assigned us to the house we would visit, I think by the basket we carried. I had thought I would rather visit with them, but the company I had was surprisingly pleasant.

"I see." He shut the sketch book. "Shall we have a go at the dance melody you were arranging? Perhaps you can show me how knowing your scales would influence the music."

"I should like that very much." She hurried to the cabinet to find the music and the sheet of notes she had made.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"Lydia!" Juliana called from the doorway. "Miss Honeywell is nearly ready to begin lessons. Hurry!"

Lydia jumped. "Oh, goodness! Not again!"

Mr. Amberson gasped. "I am sorry for keeping you so long. Go on, I will put the music away." He gathered the music they had been working on.

"Thank you, sir." Lydia dashed out.

"For one who dislikes practicing as much as you claim to, you certainly lose track of time easily." Julianna giggled.

"It is not so bad as I remember." Lydia shrugged and rushed to her seat with Joan and Amelia.

"Girls," Miss Honeywell paused until the room stilled. "I have just been to collect the post. A number of you have letters today. For our reading lesson, those of you with correspondence will pick an appropriate passage to read aloud."

Lydia swallowed hard. Papa would not have written her—would he? Please let it not be so. There could be little fit to share in a letter from him.

Miss Honeywell looked down at the pile of letters in her hand. "Miss Fitzgilbert, Miss Greenville, Miss Long, Ruth, Stephanie, Lydia and Amelia."

Lydia joined the procession of girls filing to the front. Her hands trembled as she took it, and she did not look down until she returned to her seat.

"Who is it from?" Joan whispered.

Oh thank heavens! Mary's plain, utilitarian script stared up at her. "My sister—and you?" She elbowed Amelia.

"My friend Frances, in town." She cracked the seal on the letter.

"Those of you without a letter, come around my desk and we shall do a reading from Fordyce whilst the others read their letters."

Joan grumbled as she rose and joined the others at the front of the room.

It should not be so surprising Mary would respond to her letter, she was always proper that way. And very mild. There should be something she could share from the letter. But what if there wasn't? What would Miss Honeywell say? She bit her lip as she opened the missive.

_Dear Lydia,_

_I was quite surprised to see your letter today. I had no idea you might wish to write me. _

_You asked after our parents. As of her last letter, Mama, Papa, and Kitty were doing well in London. Papa has had several interviews with Mr. Darcy's uncle concerning patronage, but I do not know if there is any further news. Papa does have some new patients, but Mama expresses her concerns over their future. She says their house is not so comfortable as the one in Kent and that the Darcys have refused them the use of their townhome. She is most put out over that. _

_Lizzy, I believe, invited Kitty to remove to Pemberley with them, but Mama insisted she stay in London—not enough society in the wilds of Derbyshire. Kitty has enjoyed the broader society in London, though I believe it is a great deal different from the balls and parties every night that she expected. There, as I understand, has been some talk of 'events' that have unfavorably impacted the invitations she receives. _

Mary was always delicate and most politic in what she said, but a gloved slap in the face was still that. And it stung. She could skip reading that bit aloud.

_The estrangement between our parents and the Darcys continues. Papa has not forgiven Lizzy for displeasing Lady Catherine. I think he and Mama blame her for their current situation and resent very much Mr. Darcy's failure to assist them more. Though Mr. Bingley is a great friend of Mr. Darcy, I believe their relationship has suffered as well. Jane seems more apt to agree with our parents than our sister, though I do not understand why._

_To answer your question, Col. Fitzwilliam has moved into Rosings Park now that he is master there and Mr. Darcy has been here to assist him several times. He assures me Lizzy is well, and if the expression on his face is any indication, they are quite well matched._

_Lady Catherine has not recovered from her daughter's death. Mrs. Collins and I call upon her regularly, but little seems to lift her spirits. She has not hosted a dinner, tea, or even card party since you left._

_Mr. Michaels is much in London to deal with estate matters, so my own wedding has been pushed back several months. Of course I am a little disappointed, but I am content to wait as necessary. It will all work out soon enough._

_While I have little to do with ledgers and accounts right now, Mrs. Collins does include me in her planning. She enjoys the comradery in the effort and I relish the opportunity to be useful. Her garden is still full of toads, especially the pea patch. That seems to be a favorite spot for them. _

_We just finished putting up vegetables for the winter, though no peas were among them. If you are interested I would be happy to send you Mrs. Collins receipt to preserve peas._

_The drawing you sent is quite lovely. I had no idea you could draw so well. The gazebo reminds me of a small one near the stream at Rosings. Perhaps in your next letter you might include a picture of your school or your room._

Those were passages she might safely share. She took her pencil and underlined those bits that were best left private.

Amelia sniffled and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Have you received bad news?"

"No…no…" She folded the letter clumsily. "It is only that…that I miss my friend and all the pleasant times we had together very much."

That was the trouble with letters. Even though she and Mary had not been very close, reading her news, made her miss all her family in a way she had been able to ignore until now.

The knot of girls at the front of the room returned to their places.

"Miss Long, rise and share you letter with us." Miss Honeywell said.

Helen Long stood. She was by far the tallest girl in the school. She moved like a willow in the wind, effortlessly, graceful in everything. If it was not for her high, squeaky, little girl's voice, she would have been the envy of every girl in the school.

"It is from my aunt. She writes…It is so pleasant to hear from you, dear…"

And so dull. Lydia bounced her foot silently and clenched her hands open and closed one finger at a time. Reading Fordyce was dreary indeed, but this was sheer torture. What did she care of these people she did not, and would never know? Why could people not write interesting letters?

Miss Long sat back down and Miss Fitzgilbert stood and shared news of an impending visit from her eldest brother and his wife. They had news, most vital news, to be shared with her and it could only be shared in person.

Why did she look so very troubled? She must dislike her brother, or his wife, very much.

Miss Honeywell stopped her before she finished. "I believe Mrs. Drummond should be informed of this news. Go to her office and speak with her now."

Miss Fitzgilbert curtsied and hurried out, letter clutched in her hand.

Lydia's stomach made an arsey-varsey plunge through her chest. Though Miss Fitzgilbert was clearly not in any sort of trouble, the prospect of being sent to Mrs. Drummond's office still seemed quite awful.

"Amelia, you may now share your letter."

Amelia stood and unfolded the letter. "My friend writes…"

Lydia peered at her. Why did she hold the letter upside down?

"…we all miss you so very much since you are gone away to school. The very light has gone out among us without your company, but we muddle on the best we can without you."

Miss Honeywell turned toward the window and rolled her eyes. How rude! She was the one who demanded they read from their letters.

"I am at sixes and seven over the upcoming ball you know. My dress should arrive from the modiste tomorrow. I took your advice and chose the white silk. You were right; it is the most elegant fabric for a gown. The details are utterly delicious and I know you must approve…"

As Amelia described the gown, Lydia sketched it in the margin of Mary's letter. Either the dress was a truly awful amalgam of awkward trims and design, or Frances could not properly describe a gown. No proper modiste would permit such a monstrosity to leave the shop, much less for an important ball in town.

"Thank you, Amelia." Miss Honeywell's face did not agree with the sentiment. "You have delighted us long enough. Lydia, you will share with us now."

Mary's letter was not very exciting and following Amelia's, it was frightfully dull. But there was little to be done for it, save skipping a few more dull passages. She rose and read as quickly as she could without earning Miss Honeywell's rebuke.

After lessons Miss Honeywell called part of the group out to help with cleaning the kitchen. The rest of them should go downstairs and sew. Her luck must be running high today as she had not been called to clean.

"That was a very pleasant letter you had from your sister." Juliana said, eyes fixed on the sewing she held up in the sunlight. It was a simple baby dress, probably for her own use very soon.

"It was." Lydia stabbed her finger and jumped. She sucked the drop of blood off it. "Botheration! I do not like to sew."

"None of us do," Joan muttered, "But it is our lot, I suppose."

"When I leave this place, I shall never sew again." Amelia crossed her arms over her chest.

"Somehow I doubt that," Miss Fitzgilbert muttered.

"Why must you always be so disagreeable?"

Amelia harrumphed. "Perhaps you are willing to settle for a poor man or a life working your fingers to the bone. I shall not. I shall have a rich man and servants to manage such things."

"And how exactly do you expect that to come about? I hardly see rich men knocking on the door for the likes of us." Miss Greenville tossed her head.

"The only man we have spoken to in months is Mr. Amberson, and he is so odd and very plain, and hardly rich." Miss Long sniffed.

Odd? Mr. Amberson was not odd, he was very nice and even pleasant looking, once one became accustomed to him. Why would anyone think him plain?

"Well, some of us still have friends and connections outside this dreadful asylum." Amelia turned her shoulder to them.

"There is no need to fuss at us because you are unhappy. It is not our fault." Miss Fitzgilbert lectured like a governess, or an older sister.

Annoying, but it somehow eased a little of the ache left by Mary's letter.

"Perhaps you should go elsewhere if my company so offends you."

Miss Fitzgilbert laid her work in her lap. "Perhaps you should find company who better appreciates your complaining. The light here is best for sewing and I shall not permit you to deprive me of it."

Amelia balled her fists and half rose. "Who do you think you are? Lording over us with your high and mighty attitude—you know that is what we call you—Miss High-and-Mighty. None of us can stand you. We all hate you."

"Then why do you not leave?"

"I think I will." Amelia threw down her sewing and stalked out, Joan following in her shadow.

Lydia set aside her sewing.

"Please, stay," Juliana whispered. "She is in such high dudgeon, I do not think she will be very nice to you."

Amelia was rather horrid when she was in a temper.

"Your sister's letter mentioned an estate—Rosings Park was it? Is it a very grand place?" Juliana asked.

It would not hurt to stay a few minutes more and give Amelia a chance to finish railing at the injustice of being at Mrs. Drummond's. She picked up her needlework. "The house was very large and fine. Lady Catherine invited my parents and elder sisters every week, but I only saw it a few times. I…I did not like to call there much. Lady Catherine frightened me. She knew everything about everything and wanted her share of every conversation. Her butler looked like a giant troll."

Juliana chuckled. "I cannot believe he was so bad, not if a lady hired him."

"Truly, he was fearsome! Long Tom he was called for he was so tall."

"Taller than Mr. Amberson?" Miss Long asked.

"By a hand span at least, and I am sure his face would crack if he ever smiled."

The girls giggled, even Miss Fitzgilbert.

"You must draw us a sketch of him, sometime." Juliana winked.

"The midwife—I saw her come visit today. What did she say?" Miss Fitzgilbert asked.

"She bled me again. I am so dreadful tired of being stuck and bleeding into her bowl. It makes me so lightheaded and so tired. I am still to rest, and I am heartily sorry for that." She stroked her belly. "She believes the baby will come before the new moon. And she thinks it will be a boy."

"That is excellent news. I do so hope she is right for that would mean you could stay on at the school with us," Miss Fitzgilbert said.

"And he would have a good home. That is the best thing." Juliana's voice thinned and broke into tiny sharp shard. She sniffled. "You said your brother and sister would visit soon. Are you much excited?"

"I do not know how to feel to be entirely truthful."

"I would dread my brother Darcy and Lizzy coming," Lydia said," even though I long for company."

"Yes, I think it much the same for me. They have never visited before and I dread the news they might bring. Who is reluctant to put good news in a letter? I fear it must be something very dreadful indeed."

"When will they come?" Miss Greenville asked.

"The day after tomorrow, or possibly the next depending on the vagaries of the weather."

"At least you will not have to wait very long." Juliana did not look up from her sewing.

"Waiting is awful, is it not?" Miss Long nodded vigorously.

"I think I am very bad at it—or so my sisters would tell me." Lydia chewed her lip. Not just her sisters, Papa and Mama scolded her for it often.

"No, what you are very bad at is being at places on time. You are forever distracted by some drawing or playing." Juliana peeked up.

If Mama or any of her sisters would have said such a thing she would have reeled from the rebuke, but from soft-round-duckling Juliana it was more a friendly tease. The other girls laughed, a warm friendly embracing sort of sound. Was this what Jane meant when she talked of laughing with someone, not at them?

"Oh gracious! The distraction must be contagious! Look at the time. We need to get ready for dinner." Miss Fitzgilbert folded her sewing.

The others followed suit with much giggling as the baskets were tucked back on the shelf.

Lydia was the last to leave the parlor. Before she reached the stairs, Joan and Amelia stopped her.

"So did she tell you anything?" Amelia asked.

"We are just wild to know."

"Did who say anything about what?"

"Miss High-and-Mighty, about her visit, silly." Amelia's lips screwed into an ugly expression that did not resemble Miss Fitzgilbert at all.

"No, not really. Only that she expected bad news...and that she expected her brother and his wife to call the day after tomorrow or the next."

"That is quite a bit for not having said anything." Joan's eyebrows lifted.

"I wonder what the news could be." Amelia's eyes grew wide and her mouth widened into something that might be called a smile had her narrowed eyes not hinted something far darker. "Perhaps her father is cutting her off and she is being sent to a poor relation."

"Or a position had been found for her as a governess for nine horrid little children."

"Or a companion for a cruel spinster who will beat her with a birch." Amelia snickered behind her hand.

"Or a teacher in a remote girls' school run by a woman worse than the old lady."

"Or maybe work as shop assistant or in a chop house."

How horrible! What was so funny about that? "I…I do not know."

"Oh, do not be such a killjoy. What is wrong with speculating satisfying fates for her? We know you do not like her any better than we do." Joan glowered.

"We simply must find out what it is. I shall surely go mad if I do not know." Amelia stomped her dainty little foot.

"I am sure we will find out readily enough. There are few secrets here." Lydia edged back toward the stairs.

"I do not think she will tell us anything, she can be full stubborn, you know. I have a much better idea." Amelia looked at Joan.

"Oh, yes, that is a splendid idea."

"What are you going on about?" Lydia grabbed the banister.

Amelia pulled her hand off. "We will show you."

They dragged her down the front hall to a dark side passage and pointed to a dusty door.

"So? That is the storage room. What of it?"

Joan opened the door and pushed Lydia inside.

"What are you doing?" Lydia struggled for the door.

Amelia held her fast. "Just wait a moment. Let your eyes become accustomed to the dark."

"I hardly see what good that will do."

"Just a moment."

A hand grabbed her shoulder and forced her to turn to her right.

Joan leaned close and whispered in her ear. "Look closely—you see slivers of light?"

"I do."

"Get closer, look through."

"The drawing room?"

"Exactly. She will take her guest in the drawing room and from here we might see everything," Amelia said.

"There will be no secret keeping from us." Joan tittered.

"I do not know. It does not seem right to listen in on a conversation—"

Amelia snorted. "Gah! You are the youngest in your family. Can you tell me you never did such a thing?"

"I am sure you cannot. No one tells the youngest daughter anything," Joan said.

"I expect you knew all the places to listen from in your home and were most adept at it."

"Especially when it might get your elder sisters in trouble."

"How would you know anything?" Lydia stomped.

"Oh do not be so self-righteous, dear. It is the way of families everywhere." Joan's face wrinkled into a shadowy sneer. "I have elder brothers and sisters who would tell me nary a thing, yet I managed to know everything that went to on in the house. Tell me it was any different for you."

But it was, surely it was. Papa never answered her questions and Mama deemed her too silly to understand and too pretty to care. Surely that made it different.

"You see, I am right," Joan said.

"Then it is settled. We will watch for Miss Fitzgilbert's guests to arrive, and we will meet here and learn what delicious little secrets she is trying to hide from us all." Amelia's thin little smile felt menacing in the dim light.

"Indeed we shall. You as well, Lydia."

"Very well, but we must hurry and get ready for dinner. I…I do not relish missing it."

"Oh, you are right. The old lady is such a crosspatch about such things." Joan opened the door and led them out.

The fresh air burned her lungs as she sucked in deep breaths. Surely this was not such a troubling thing. Joan was right, it was the way of things at home, and there was little enough harm from it. Still, she must not allow Juliana to hear of their plan. There was not room in the crowded storage space for a roly-poly little duck, and she might not be fond of the idea anyway. Lydia hurried upstairs and got ready, lest she prove Juliana's pronouncement on her timeliness correct again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11 **

Two days later, the girls sat in the morning room for breakfast, several conversations happening at once. A note arrived for Miss Fitzgilbert. Her face lost all color and she dashed from the breakfast room.

Joan and Amelia elbowed each other and giggled.

"I suppose she will have callers this afternoon," Joan whispered.

"I do so hope it is not during lessons. It would be a shame for her to miss out on anything." Amelia's eyebrows flashed up and Joan tittered. They both turned to Lydia.

She nodded, but a little knot had taken up residence right beneath her ribs. Perhaps it was that she did not sleep well the previous night.

Juliana had kept her up much of the night suffering a headache so severe she cast up her accounts on no less than three occasions. Mrs. Drummond had sent Lydia to fetch water and towels and tea several times and she ended the night more exhausted than she began. Perhaps, she should have slept on the settee in Mrs. Drummond's office as she suggested.

"Are you going to come with us?" Joan poked her shoulder.

Lydia jumped. "Oh, where?"

"I told you she was wool gathering." Amelia tossed her head in a superior little gesture reminiscent of Miss de Bourgh. "We are going to take a turn about the garden before the weather changes."

"Weather?"

"You mutton head! Have you heard nothing we have said?" Joan flicked her hand.

"I suppose not." It was difficult to listen when one was so very tired.

"Just look outside. You can see the clouds gathering. If you want fresh air, best get it now, as we may all end up shut up in the house for several days."

"No, I think I shall stay inside. You go on without me."

Amelia shrugged. "Suit yourself. Come find us if you see anyone arrive." She flounced out, Joan trailing behind her.

Lydia ran her hands over her shoulders. There was a nip in the air. Perhaps she should get her shawl. She wandered upstairs. If only she might take a nap, that would be so appealing. But Mrs. Drummond had warned her against disturbing Juliana. She tiptoed in, retrieved her shawl and snuck out again, Juliana none the wiser.

The music room was empty and she found herself inside, playing through a minor scale on the pianoforte. She repeated it, opting for a different pattern and rhythm. Yes, that somehow felt very fitting for the darkening sky and distant thunder. That would make for an interesting variation of the tune she sang with Widow Randalls. Best she write that down before she forgot. She rose and headed for little cabinet where the paper was kept.

"Oh, sir! When did you—"

Mr. Amberson towered over her, his eyes crinkled at the corners. A dear little crease knotted his brows and the set of his lips and jaw felt quite serious. "Not very long ago. I heard scales and had to see who was practicing."

"Was I doing them wrong, sir?"

"Not at all, Miss Bennet. In truth, you did them very well. I think you must be practicing them more than you have told me." He strode across the room, with steps so impossibly long it seemed he would surely come off balance, and laid his hand on the pianoforte.

His fingers were long and graceful. When he played, really played for them in the evenings, they flowed over the keyboard like river water over stones, effortless and lively or stormy and turbulent. He spoke volumes through them without ever voicing a word.

"Miss Bennet?"

She jumped. "Oh, pray excuse me."

"What distracted you so?"

She stammered and sputtered and looked away. "Your hands, sir."

He held them up and turned them back and forward. "I have not failed to wash them. Is there something amiss?"

"No, I …I was just noticing them." Would he be very much displeased? She peeked up at him.

A tiny dimple appeared in his cheek. "What were you noticing about them, if I may ask?"

"That they are…more expressive than many people's faces."

"Oh, I see." Color crept up his neck and along his jaw.

"May…May I draw them some time?"

He bit his upper lip, but his smile came through. "I would be most honored." He bowed from his shoulders. "I should like to see it when you have finished, though."

"Of course." Oh, the way he looked at her! His eyes spoke almost as much as his hands.

A shriek from the garden pierced the air. They dashed to the window.

Joan and Amelia stared and pointed at the heather, chattering wildly and ran for the house.

"Do you think?" Lydia sniggered.

"Shall we go find out?" He winked and gestured for the door.

Joan and Amelia caught them in the front hall.

"Sir! Sir!" Joan panted.

"There is something in the garden!" Amelia fanned her face.

"What did you see?" His voice was perfectly calm and his expression so mild it was almost unnatural.

"I…I am not sure…" Joan looked over her shoulder.

"But it had eyes…"

"And I am sure I saw horrible large teeth…"

"And a tail."

"Perhaps a rat then?" He stroked his chin.

How did he manage so serious an expression when she could hardly contain her laughter?

"Perhaps…I do not know, but it was big…" Joan held out open hands and stretched them wider apart."

"Huge."

"Perhaps then, I should look for it. If it proves to be a rat, we might borrow the butcher's dog to deal with it. Are you any good at spotting rats, Miss Bennet?" His eyebrows climbed just so.

No, she must not laugh now.

"I might be able to help. We had trouble with them once when we lived in London."

"No, Lydia, you do not want to go out there." Joan reached for her arm, but she edged just out of reach.

"There is nothing to fear. Do not be so silly. La! I will show you. Rats are unpleasant to be sure, but not worth such a fuss." She headed toward the back door.

Only Mr. Amberson followed.

He closed the back door and she leaned back against it, giggling.

"Do not be so hard on them. Would you be so calm if you thought a giant rat had taken up residence in the heather?"

If he was attempting to look stern, he was failing.

"I was not joking about the rats in London, sir. I was but a small girl, and as my sisters tell me, the house was not in a desirable location. I remember the beady little eyes very well. They might be found, not only around the garden, but in the larders and, occasionally, in my room at night. They made a fearsome racket at times. My father borrowed a rather ill-tempered little terrier to deal with the problem."

He licked his lips and his eyes crinkled with his smile. "Very well then, my brave Miss Bennet, lead the way.

She curtsied and pulled her shawl a little tighter over her shoulders. Dear, it was chilly. He took one step for nearly every two of hers. Another gust of wind raced through the garden, whipping the heather to a frenzy.

"Oh, look!" She pointed.

"He is still on duty, there." He saluted. "Well done, Mr. Birch. Excellent execution of your duties."

"What shall we tell Joan and Amelia?"

He gestured toward the path ahead and they walked on.

"I could tell them we saw no sign of a rat—which would be utterly true. Or, we might say we saw something and will bring by the butcher's dog as soon as he may be arranged, which would be equally true, but perhaps a little less forthright. What think you?" He asked.

She rubbed her knuckles over her lips. "The second option is certainly more fun, is it not?"

His expression shifted subtly, intensified and darkened. "There is something else on your mind and you are not telling me. I hear something in your voice."

She inched back. "No, it is nothing."

"Do not try and argue with a musician over what he hears. I may be all awkwardness and uncertainty over many things, but of my ear, I am entirely certain."

"You sound like my sister, Lizzy She is always certain of what she observes." And almost never wrong. How nice it would be to be so all-knowing.

"I do not profess to that level of expertise. My confidence is solely upon my ear."

"I think you should have confidence in far more than that, and I do not believe you are so awkward as you profess."

"Ah, now you flatter me. With your eye, you can hardly fail to notice I have all the grace and figure of a grasshopper." He gestured to the length of his leg with a theatrical flourish.

She snickered.

"And yes, I give you permission to depict me as such. I should be quite amused by it, as was Miss Morely by her duck—which portrayed her quite sweetly, I would say."

"She showed you?"

"Indeed she did and very proud of it, too."

"She did seem complimented by it. You know, she even asked me to draw another that she now has pinned up above her bed."

"I am pleased you see the difference between toads and ducklings." His eyes sparkled a little.

Wickham's eyes did that too, but not when he looked at her.

"Amelia tried to draw Miss Honeywell as a pudgy little porker, but I did not think it a good drawing at all. She wanted me to help her with it, but I thought Miss Honeywell would take offense."

"I imagine you are correct." He cocked his head and lifted an eyebrow. "You are also quite adept at changing the subject for the sake of distraction, I suppose. But I am not as forgetful as one might expect. I still maintain you seemed troubled."

She clutched the ends of her shawl, breath constricted as though a trap closed around her. Lizzy made her feel the same way when she observed too much.

"I see I have made you uneasy, but I must persist. It is difficult for me to simply stand by and see you so uncomfortable. Please, tell me."

"It is nothing, sir."

"Every time your friends, Miss Easton and Miss Colbrane, come up in conversation, I hear the same ill-at-ease note rise in your voice."

Lydia shrugged. Oh, he was far too much like Lizzy! "They are my friends. I do not like it when they are unhappy with me."

"They are unhappy with you often?"

"Oh look! A carriage—do you think that is—"

"They are unhappy with you often?" He stopped mid-step and looked down at her. It would have made her feel very small, the way Papa did, except for the way his fingertips touched hers, just barely, but enough to promise he was not angry.

How did one keep a secret from such eyes? "Amelia is unhappy with everything. She has lost so much being here, perhaps more than any of us. One cannot blame her fits of pique, I suppose."

"And that is how you perceive her? It is very generous, I think."

She kicked a small stone and sent it skittering. "She and Joan have been very kind to me. It is only fair."

"It would seem to me you put up with a great deal to call them your friends."

"It is a very pleasant thing to have friends here, I think. It is a hard thing to come to a place you do not know among people who are quite formidable…"

"Am I so formidable?"

His eyes were truly astonishing and made her heart flutter like the heather in the wind.

"No, not so much."

He leaned a little closer. "I should hope that you might consider me among your friends."

"I..I…"

"Mr. Amberson!" Mrs. Drummond called from the back door. "Pray, come immediately. I have need of your assistance!"

He nodded curtly and dashed away.

What could she need his assistance for? Lydia wandered toward the house. As she approached the door, high screechy voices filtered out.

No! Those were Joan's and Amelia's voices!

Had Mrs. Drummond discovered their plans or their hiding place? She pressed her back to the cold stone of the house. If she had, would they reveal her complicity in the scheme?

Her mouth went dry and her heart thundered. She crept along the wall to the window of Mrs. Drummond's office which was left open a hand span. She inched closer but stopped half an arm's length from the window.

Her panting breath and pounding pulse drowned out all sound from the room. She held her breath and stood very still.

"Yes, yes, escort them in here," Mrs. Drummond ordered.

"You need not be so rough!" Amelia screeched.

"Let go of my arm!" Joan said

"No, no, Mr. Amberson, I require you to stay."

No! He was part of this? He would be so angry with her, if he knew.

His voice faded into dull rumbles, obscuring the individual words.

"Very well, remain just outside the door, but do not leave. I may require you again."

More mumbles and a door closed. But if he stood there, he would surely hear anything that they said.

"Can you explain to me, Miss Easton, what you and Miss Colbrane were doing in the storage room?"

"We were fetching something for Miss Thornton, missus." Amelia probably wore that insincere innocent expression she used to fool Miss Honeywell.

"And what precisely was the item you sought?"

"She…she wanted a book from a trunk." Joan was certainly trying to imitate Amelia's expression, and failing. She never quite managed it convincingly.

"Which trunk and which book?...You do not recall?...Perhaps, Miss Colbrane, you recall?...No?...Then perhaps that was not your errand after all. I find it particularly interesting to have found you there, adjacent to and able to see into the drawing room whilst Miss Fitzgilbert receives her brother and sister. It is quite clear—"

"We have not told you the truth, madam," Amelia said, her voice very small and almost contrite. "That is true, but we were only trying to spare Lydia from your displeasure."

Lydia gasped and clapped her hands to her mouth. No! How could she?

"What has Miss Bennet to do with you being in the closet, eavesdropping?"

"We heard and saw nothing!" Joan pleaded.

"That is not what I asked."

"It was Lydia's idea, missus. You would be surprised how clever she is. I do not know how she found the holes in the storage room, but she did. Then she said we three should meet there to learn of Miss Fitzgilbert's visitors." Oh, Amelia was surely blinking her doe-eyes at Mrs. Drummond, looking as innocent as a spotted fawn.

"She made us promise to join her." Joan said.

"I find that interesting, given she is not with you." Perhaps Mrs. Drummond might not be so easily persuaded! Might the headmistress's ire work in her favor today?

"You…you did not find her? She was there, well hidden, near the wall." Amelia said.

"Shall I send Mr. Amberson to fetch her?"

"No, no, surely she has already escaped that place. I do not imagine she is still there."

Several loud steps rang out, Mrs. Drummond's. "No, I imagine not. She must be a very clever girl."

"Yes, missus; she is always scheming ways to break the rules without you knowing." How could Amelia say such a thing?

"I see. I shall have to speak to her then."

Lydia's knees buckled and she pressed hard against the wall to stand.

"It will be most instructive to learn how she has managed to be in two separate places at the same time. I distinctly saw her in the garden whilst you both were in hiding."

"But she was there." Joan stomped.

"It was her idea."

"Then she is exceptionally clever indeed to conspire to implicate you whilst she herself is entirely isolated from all impropriety."

"Indeed, madam. She is wicked clever, far more than anyone knows." What an awful thing for Joan to say.

Mrs. Drummond huffed and something creaked and squealed, hinges perhaps? "I am not as simple as you seem to believe. I am quite offended you think me so." More metallic squeals and a wooden clatter.

"No! Please, missus, no!"

"It was not our fault!"

"Everything you have spoken to me has been a lie and you are very well aware of how I feel about dishonesty.

"But we have not—"

"Another word, Miss Easton, shall double your penalty."

Joan and Amelia squealed.

"Much better. Miss Easton, you shall be first. I believe you know the procedure."

Lydia dashed away, nearly tripping over the path stones and her own feet. How horrid, how absolutely horrid. Poor Joan. Poor Amelia. This was dreadful.

But they had tried to blame everything on her! How could they do that? What if Mrs. Drummond had believed them? She might be there, punished for something she had not done.

How narrowly had she escaped their fate?

She sank down on a large garden stone and wrapped her shawl about her tightly. Was what she almost did so awful? If Miss Fitzgilbert knew she were being seen, she would probably not have liked it. It was difficult having so little privacy here.

She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered. She would not have wanted anyone watching her with Wickham. Oh, that would have been embarrassing. Her eyes burned and throat pinched. No, she would not have wanted witnesses in those moments. No more than she wanted to hear her friends receive their comeuppance.

Lightening flashed and thunder rumbled on the horizon. The rain would not hold off much longer. Best get inside. She dabbed her eyes with her shawl.

The front door swung open and a well-dressed couple emerged. He resembled Miss Fitzgilbert. They both wore matching expressions of dissatisfaction and disdain; much like Lady Catherine wore whenever she lectured those beneath her.

They mounted the carriage and drove off. What news had they brought Miss Fitzgilbert? Perhaps, it was best she not know. Fat wet drops splashed on her face and she slipped inside.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Distressed voices and cries greeted her. Joan, Amelia, Mrs. Drummond—who else?

A door squeaked open and the voices grew louder. They were coming toward her. No, she could not see them now.

She raced down the hall and ducked into the nearest room. The door softly clicked behind her as she sagged against it.

"What do you want?"

No! How had she ended up in the drawing room?

Miss Fitzgilbert glared at her, face tear streaked, a handkerchief wadded up in her hands.

"Oh! I did not mean to come in here! I am sorry." What a pudding-headed thing to do!

"Then why are you here?"

"Joan and Amelia…Mrs. Drummond is quite angry. I did not want them to…to…"

"Drag you into their punishment?" Miss Fitzgilbert sniffled. "I have seen them do it before. I suppose this was the nearest place for you to hide from them."

How did she know about Joan and Amelia? Had she heard them through the walls? Was that how Mrs. Drummond found them?

"It was… but I did not mean to intrude upon you."

"It is just as well. My brother and sister have left and I am sure everyone will be wild to know what news they have brought."

"I will leave you now. I am quite sure you do not wish for my company."

"What does it matter, yours, or anyone else's? It changes nothing."

"You need not share anything with me."

Miss Fitzgilbert rose and paced along the front of the sofa. "Perhaps I want to share it all with someone, anyone. Keeping it all inside, I might just burst."

"Should you not tell Mrs. Drummond? Maybe Miss Thornton? You like her very well." Lydia clutched the doorknob.

"I do not want to talk to them! They will only tell me how fortunate I am and I do not want to hear it." She pumped her fists at her sides. "I want someone to understand how very miserable I am and feel sorry for me."

"Miss Greenville then? Miss Long? Juliana?"

"Just go then. You hate me anyway. Why would you want to listen? But perhaps you would rejoice in my fate."

"I do not hate you. And if your fate is even half as hard as being here, then I surely cannot rejoice in it."

Miss Fitzgilbert sniffled and blotted her nose. "Do you wonder what my brother came to tell me?"

"Everyone does."

"He brought word from my father. He is a peer you know. By all rights, I am the Lady Annabelle—how fine that sounds. You should address me that way, you know."

"Please, do not speak of it. Mrs. Drummond would be ever so cross to hear it." Lydia shuddered. What would it be to her to cane another girl today?

"I do not care. It does not matter anyway. My father has refused me yet again. He says I am not welcome in his home and may never return there in my current state."

"That is dreadful news."

"And my mother still has not recovered from what I have done. She still cannot speak my name, much less write to me."

Mama had not written to her either.

"But my brother brings good news you see. A solution to all my problems. Something that will set everything to rights, that will permit my father to admit me once again, that will restore my mother's heart and my respectability." Miss Fitzgilbert pressed her hand to her heart.

"Is that not a wonderful thing? Does it not please you?"

"I am an ungrateful wretch. I know. My brother's wife has already told me so."

"I did not say such a thing."

"Did you not wonder why I am so miserable? Why I would so desire to throw such an opportunity away?"

While interesting, she would rather not know, if it meant escaping this room without facing Mr. Drummond's ire.

"They have found someone to marry me, Miss Bennet."

Lydia squealed. "Married? Is that not a lovely thing?"

"My brother and sister think it is. But I think it horrid, absolutely horrid. I have worked so hard to become what they told me I had to be. I have repented of my ways. I am proper and trustworthy and respectful and it does not matter!" She stamped and shook her fists. "None of it matters!"

"But…but you are to marry? Is that not a reward for your improvement?"

"Such a man they have cast me to! He is so old. Nearly my father's age. A knight and perfectly respectable, to be sure. Sir Anthony, a widower twice over now, having heirs and spares older than me. He has finished mourning and wants to return to society with a pretty decoration on his arm and a new hostess in his house." She bowed with a deep flourish.

"You do not like him?"

"I do not even know him. But I know I do not want to marry a man more than twice my age that I do not even know. I am sure I will never love him." She sank onto a nearby ottoman, face in her hands. "I…I wanted to be worthy of love…"

But she was so good and everyone admired her, how was it possible—

"So there you have it—my dreadful fate. Make fun, laugh at me, and enjoy it all at my expense."

Lydia stepped closer. "It is a cruel fate and I cannot laugh at it."

"Truly?"

"What will you do?"

"What I must. I have seen too clearly what awaits me if I refuse. My father will cut me off if I do and I would have little choice but to seek a position. I do not want to serve some great house as a governess who is expected to tend both the children by day and the master by night."

Lydia gasped. Could that be why Mama had steadfastly refused to hire a governess?

"At least this way those duties will come with the titles of 'Lady' and 'Missus'. I will be mistress of a home…and respectable."

"Those are very good things." They were, the very things Mama insisted were to be sought. "But, never to have love…"

"You understand! Mrs. Drummond and the teachers would scold me for my ingratitude if they knew. Before them, I must rejoice in my good fortune and be an example for the others, for if they are very lucky the same opportunity might come to them as well. I cannot speak of this, not to another soul." She crossed the room in long, desperate strides and clutched Lydia's hands. "You must keep my confidence."

"I will."

"Pray, do not tell—"

"I will not speak of it, I promise. And if I break my word, you…you may tell Mrs. Drummond who takes such things very seriously."

Miss Fitzgilbert loosened her grip on Lydia's arm. "I am to meet him in a se'nnight's time. He will call upon me here."

"Then what?"

"I do not know. I am so scared. We will need a chaperone for our meeting. Will you sit with me when he comes?"

"Would not Mrs. Drummond be more appropriate?"

"I am sure she would, But I should rather have someone who knows how I feel even if there is nothing I can do about it. Pray do this for me."

"Perhaps it will not be so bad. Our friend Mrs. Collins married a man she did not really like for comfort, and she is now very content—and much loved by the parish. "

"Then you will?"

"If Mrs. Drummond permits me, yes, I will."

Miss Fitzgilbert dried her eyes and left to find Mrs. Drummond. Lydia wandered upstairs. The storm made for bad light for sewing, but she might be able to draw, or play pianoforte—anything so she did not have to talk.

A hand grabbed her elbow and pulled her inside a room. She shrieked.

"Stop it you goose cap. There is no need for screaming." Amelia closed the door with her shoulder.

"You could simply have invited me in."

"We don't want anyone to see or hear us." Joan lay on her stomach across the bed. "We do not relish anyone taking pleasure in our misery."

"But we know you will not, our dear friend." Amelia pulled her further into the room.

Lightening flashed and briefly lit the dim room with its eerie blue-white glow. How piteous their faces appeared in that light. Thunder rumbled and a sheet of rain pelted the window.

"You are so lucky that you were not with us when the old lady found us."

"Did you and Mr. Amberson—" Amelia accented his name so oddly. "Find any rats in the garden?"

"No…no, we looked all over, but only found some shiny pebbles that might be mistaken for their beady little eyes. I…I think he means to borrow the butcher's dog in any case."

"Naturally, Missus would not want to pay for a proper rat catcher. Horrid old miser." Amelia threw herself on the bed beside Joan.

"Was she very harsh with you?" Lydia's stomach knotted.

"Dreadful, absolutely dreadful." Joan dabbed away tears.

"Worse than that! Her bloody cane, it feels like fire itself. I swear I thought she might draw blood with it."

"Surely not!"

"I dare say she would have, if Mr. Amberson had not stopped her."

"Mr. Amberson?"

"Indeed. He was my rescuer." Amelia batted her eyes. "You see what she did to me." She hiked up her skirts to reveal several deep red and purple wheals across the back of her thighs.

Lydia gulped and clutched the bed frame. "How did you stand it?"

"Oh, it was ever so difficult." Amelia flipped her skirts down. "She mistreated us so."

"And for what? We heard and saw nothing for we were dragged away even before Miss Fitzgilbert's guests were announced." Joan said.

"If not for Mr. Amberson, I do not know what we would have done. He was so gallant. Missus insisted he hold us down whilst she beat us."

"We thought him quite cruel to be sure."

"But he proved our greatest friend indeed, demanding she stop her cruelty and release us. He ushered us out and …" Amelia knelt on the bed, "…said he thought her quite heartless…"

"He promised that he should never allow us to face her cruelty again."

"Is he not a saint?" Amelia slid her feet to the floor. "No wonder you like him so well."

"I…I like him?"

"You think yourself so sly. Extra lessons with him, showing him your drawings. Do you not think we know what you are about?"

"What I am about? Nothing—"

"Do not play us for fools! We are very impressed." Joan and Amelia glanced at each other and nodded.

"He is the old lady's nephew. What better way to garner her favor than to get his?" Joan winked.

"That is ridiculous!"

They laughed.

"There is no shame in admitting the truth. Or do you actually like him?" The coy look on Amelia's face begged to be slapped off.

"Oh you do!" Joan giggled.

"And perhaps you are jealous of our rescue?"

"Stop it, simply stop it!" Lydia stomped toward the door.

"Oh, we have hit a sore point, have we not? And you do not like to be teased." Amelia grabbed her elbow.

"You do not need to be that way. We are only playing."

"I do not like it."

"Very well, we shall stop. But do take pity upon us and tell us what you have learned of Miss Fitzgilbert's visitors," Amelia said.

"Nothing, I know nothing about them at all."

"Do not keep secrets from us." Joan pouted. "After all, we have told you everything."

"And, we did not tell Missus about how you were supposed to be with us."

Hardly! Lydia bit her cheek. "I do not know anything."

"We heard the maid say you were in the drawing room with her. How could that be?" Amelia leaned very close.

"I went in by mistake. Her guests were gone in any case."

"By mistake? How could you possibly barge in by mistake?" Joan slapped the counterpane.

"Because I am stupid. I heard Mrs. Drummond coming down the hall, and I hid."

"So what did she tell you when you barged in?" Amelia asked.

"To get out."

"What else?" Joan rolled off the bed and stood with them.

"She was angry and upset that she would not be leaving the school." Lydia edged back. "That was all she told me."

Amelia snorted. "And Miss High and Mighty made such a fuss over that? She is such a spoiled little chit. Oh, I hate her!"

"She pretended to have such a great secret but she is no better than the rest of us." Joan tossed her head. "Now I am truly miserable."

"You are certain there is no bit of sweet gossip to share?" Amelia pressed even closer.

"The most interesting thing today is that there is no rat in the garden."

Amelia harrumphed. "Perhaps you will bring us some food? I am quite famished."

"Oh, be a dear and do. We missed luncheon you know."

"Mrs. Drummond has rules about trays and she seems quite cross."

"You do not care about us." Joan said.

"After all we did for you, not telling Mrs. Drummond."

Yes, they had done her such great favors there. "I make no promises, but I will see if it is possible. Do not blame me if I cannot though."

"Try very hard for us." Amelia turned her doe-eyes on Lydia.

She slipped out of their room and strode toward the schoolroom. Missing a meal would not kill them.

A week later, on the return from a visit to the work house, Mrs. Drummond caught her as she walked in the door.

"Come to my office, Lydia, I would speak to you."

Joan and Amelia gasped and giggled. Horrid cows! How could they laugh at her plight?

"Yes, madam." Lydia whispered and followed her down the hall.

How did anyone maintain an office with nothing on the desk and not an item moved since she had first been there? Papa's desk at home was always littered with papers from some sort and uncle's was positively covered with clutter.

"Sit down." Mrs. Drummond gestured toward a chair and sat down behind her desk. She was so short behind it; it was easy to forget how tiny she really was.

"Is there a problem?" Lydia whispered mouth dry and woolly.

"I would not call it a problem. A curiosity might better describe it."

"I do not understand."

"Nor do I, that is why you are here." She drummed her fingers along the polished desk top. "Miss Fitzgilbert has presented me with a singular request, and I am at a loss to understand. She tells me she wants you to chaperone her with her caller tomorrow."

"She asked me, but I told her I did not think you would be agreeable. I thought it would be better that you or Miss Thornton did it."

Mrs. Drummond sat back. "So you have not attempted to persuade her—"

"No, I do not know how to be a chaperone. No one has ever asked me to do such a thing."

"You sound quite alarmed."

Lydia writhed in her hard chair. "Surely you will punish me severely if I do it wrong. Far better that I not sit with her. I tried to tell her that, truly, I did."

"You do not want the task? She told me you agreed."

"I did, but only because she was so distressed. Please, please do not be angry with me." She scanned the room. Oh, that must be the squeaky cabinet where she kept her cane! "I did not mean to do anything wrong."

"Calm down, you silly girl. I did not call you here to punish you."

She released her grip on the chair's arms. When had she begun to clutch them so hard?

"That is better. Now, tell me. Why do you think she asked you? You have never been her particular friend."

"No," Lydia shrugged, "but we are not enemies either."

"That is still no reason."

"I do not know. I came across her when she was very upset and she asked me."

"You understand the gravity of the situation?"

"I think so."

"I have no doubt she will behave modestly. But it is imperative that she not do anything foolish. I well understand her feelings in the matter, or at least I suppose I do." She raised her eyebrow.

Lydia squeezed her eyes shut and twitched a tiny nod.

Mrs. Drummond grunted disapproval. "She must not do anything foolish."

"I…I do not think she will."

"Are you prepared to help her if she falters?"

"I am sad for her, but I know this may be her only chance to escape a life of service."

"Are you trustworthy with such an important task, with so very much at stake?"

Lydia gulped. "No one has ever trusted me with anything of value. They were probably right not to."

Mrs. Drummond peered at her with the same sort of look Lizzy had when she was trying to make a decision. "Perhaps they were right at that time, but," she scratched her chin, "I believe you well understand what is at stake. Since Miss Fitzgilbert expressed her desire to me most violently, I am prepared to grant her request, assuming you are still willing. Or have you changed your mind?"

"Are you certain it should not be you?"

"If you do not feel you can commit to what is required, I shall do it myself, but I believe it will be better for her if you will perform the office."

How odd…and nice those words felt. "Yes, madam, I will."

"Very good then. The call is to be at two in the afternoon tomorrow. You will be released from charitable visits for the occasion. You are excused."

Lydia rose and curtsied, knees so weak she almost did not rise from it.

Mrs. Drummond walked her to the door and opened it squarely into Mr. Amberson.

"James…Mr. Amberson, what are you doing here?"

"Have you a moment?" he asked, but gazed at Lydia.

She smiled a little and tried to look pleasant, but probably failed. "I was just leaving."

He slipped into the office and shut the door.

The hall was mercifully empty. She pressed against the wall and leaned her head back. How blessed to have been called to Ms. Drummond's office and not punished. Oh, but what to tell Joan and Amelia when they asked?

What would make them leave her alone? It would be bad enough when word got round that she sat with Miss Fitzgilbert and her guest. What would she say then? They would all hate her if she said nothing. But Miss Fitzgilbert would hate her if she did. And Mrs. Drummond would probably punish her for it, too.

What a horrid mess! She covered her face with her hands and rolled her head against the wall.

Low rumbles filtered through the wall, Mr. Amberson's voice. The words all garbled into something indecipherable.

"James, I think it very ill-advised. You fully understand the situation?" Mrs. Drummond's voice came through much more clearly.

More rumbling, reminiscent of the piece he had recently played for her, determined, forceful, intentional.

"You realize the implication of such a move—what it may cost you?"

Move? Did he plan to leave the school? What little luncheon she had eaten soured and threatened to come up. No, no, he could not do that. Who would teach her music? Who would look at her drawings? Who here might understand her? No, it was not fair!

She dashed outside to the garden. Only Mr. Birch could be trusted with her discontent.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

The next day after breakfast, Mrs. Drummond directed them to the kitchen to pick up baskets for their visit to the women and children in gaol.

"Where is your basket?" Amelia asked. Her voice had that unpleasant, scathing edge she used when she thought someone was trying to take advantage.

"Mrs. Drummond requires that I stay behind today and help Juliana with her chores," Lydia whispered. Hopefully no one else would notice.

"Are you not the lucky one? How did you become such a favorite? I hate going to the gaol." Joan narrowed her eyes at Amelia.

"Oh, do not be such a fuss." Amelia took Joan's basket.

"Well I do. It is so dismal."

"Not as dismal as having to do all the heavy work for Juliana." Lydia wrinkled her face into a grimace she did not actually feel.

"Come along, girls." Miss Thornton ushered them out.

Cook grunted at her and pointed at the pantry. Lydia followed her in and helped her gather the needed cleaning supplies.

Miss Fitzgilbert peeked in. "I am sorry you have to clean the drawing room with me and Juliana." She picked up the crock of old, used tea leaves and dust pan.

Lydia tucked a pile of dust clothes and flannels under her arm grabbed the duster and brooms. "Given my choice, I would rather clean the entire house than go to the gaol. Joan is not the only one who hates it."

Julianna met them in the drawing room. "Mrs. Drummond said that the windows do not need cleaning today as it was done Saturday last."

"That is something to be thankful for," Miss Fitzgilbert said. "I hardly think we could get them all washed before dinner."

Julianna waddled toward a pair of chairs near the window and grabbed hold of the nearest one. Lydia dashed to her side and shouldered her away.

"There will be sufficient excitement today without another call to the midwife. I will move the furniture." Lydia took hold of the chair.

"She is right. Best you sit at the little writing desk and let us bring you bric-a-brac for dusting." Miss Fitzgilbert pointed to the desk near the window.

"But that is not fair to you."

Miss Fitzgilbert gave Juliana a little shove. "Do be kind to my poor nerves and do as I ask. If for no other reason, recall how much I hate dusting fiddly things."

Juliana sighed and picked up a vase and cleaning rags on her way to the writing desk. Lydia and Miss Fitzgilbert moved the small furniture to the center of the room and rolled up the hearth rug. They dragged it to the hall.

"I am almost disappointed that the maid will be beating the rug." Miss Fitzgilbert sniggered under her breath.

"You would rather do the chore yourself?" Lydia asked.

"Not usually, but today, I think it might be very—what is the word Miss Honeywell taught us—cathartic to thoroughly beat something right now."

Juliana chuckled as she gathered several pieces of garniture and a porcelain shepherdess for dusting.

"Do you care to cover the furniture with the dusting clothes or pin up the curtains?" Lydia asked.

"My hands are shaking so! Best leave the pins to you." Miss Fitzgilbert picked up the nearest dusting cloth and flipped out the folds. "It has been so long since I received a caller—an important caller—I hardly know what to do."

Lydia pinned up the last curtain and sprinkled tea leaves along the sides of the room. "Hurry and cover the last of the furniture so I can begin sweeping. The sooner we finish cleaning, the sooner we can help you dress."

Miss Fitzgilbert shook out the last cloth. "Oh, would you help me? Mrs. Drummond has given me permission to wear my white dress, but I am sure I could not manage the buttons on my own. I do not wish to ask her help."

"You must allow Lydia to do your hair. She is very good at it you know," Julianna called over the scratchy broom sounds.

"Would you do that for me? I think I have all but forgotten how to do anything but pin it up in a plain little knot."

Lydia swept tea leaves and dirt into the dust pan. "My sisters often asked me to help them with theirs. I am sure I have not forgotten how."

"Would you do that for me?" Miss Fitzgilbert's eyes shimmered as she dragged a chair back into place. "I have been contemplating just putting a cap on to be done with it all." She laughed, but there was little joy in it. "I am hopeless at doing hair."

"My sister Mary used to say the same thing." Lydia strewed handfuls of damp tea leaves along the center of the room, barely missing the hem of Miss Fitzgilbert's skirt. "But once I showed her a few simple things, she did quite well. It really is not so very difficult. If you merely consider doing your hair like trimming a gown—"

"That is easy for you to say." Juliana waved her dust cloth at Lydia. "You who can just pick up a pencil and draw any little thing you see. I have never known anyone as clever at drawing or painting as you."

"She is right." Miss Fitzgilbert took the carpet broom from Lydia and swept lightly over the faded carpet. "I cannot wait to see what you are able to do with those watercolors Miss Honeywell gave you."

Lydia picked up several pieces of garniture from Juliana's table and returned them to their places. "I am ever so excited to try them."

"When you do, you must paint something for me. I dare say there is not much room left on your own walls for more of your pictures and mine are so very bare."

Lydia laughed. "Julianna is the one who insists on pinning them all up. Even the dreadful ones."

"There are no dreadful ones. I like them all." Julianna pushed up from her chair and waddled off to return the last of the bric-a-brac to its place.

"Then you are either a liar or have no eye for beauty—"

"Or she is far too generous to think ill of anyone." Miss Fitzgilbert gathered up the dust cloths from the furniture.

"I am none of those things." Julianna unpinned the nearest curtains and fluffed them as they tumbled to the baseboards. "Perhaps I am just easy to please."

"Yes, you are a saint. But you still snore." Lydia wrinkled up her nose and laughed.

They returned the cleaning things to the kitchen and headed upstairs.

"How long will you keep your caller a secret?" Julianna asked.

"Oh, I do not know. I would like to get accustomed to the whole notion of marrying him before having to answer questions from the whole school." Miss Fitzgilbert shuddered.

"Most will be very happy for you," Julianna said.

"Happy, and jealous." Lydia huffed. "And there will be some very impertinent remarks, I am sure."

"Joan and Amelia say some very shocking things from time to time." Juliana paused on the steps and panted for breath.

"You are far too generous." Miss Fitzgilbert rolled her eyes. "They can be positively horrid. I do not know how you can stand them, Lydia. They even say horrible things to you."

Lydia swallowed hard. "I suppose, maybe a little. It does not seem so very bad."

Were they really so objectionable? They had lied to Mrs. Drummond about her, but only because they were so afraid of her cane. That was understandable, surely it was.

Certainly what they said to her was nothing in comparison to the things Papa was apt to say. They had never called her names or told her she was silly, and they listened to her stories, most of the time anyway. No they really were not so bad.

"And do not go making excuses for them, sweet Julianna. I have heard you doing it for months, but I am entirely unconvinced that you can excuse their remarks by indigestion or a headache," Miss Fitzgilbert said.

Lydia sniggered. "Oh, but costiveness is responsible for so much ill-humor in young ladies." She peered down her nose the way Papa did when he lectured. "It must be avoided at all costs."

Miss Fitzgilbert took Juliana's elbow. "You do that far too well. You sound like an apothecary trying to sell purges."

"I know. Mr. Lang our old apothecary looked just like a stout little pitcher, pouring out opinions. There is nothing he liked better than a purge, except perhaps a clyster."

They covered their mouths and giggled.

"I do not thing Mrs. Drummond would find this a fitting conversation." Juliana looked over her shoulder.

"No, most likely not. But I do not care. Not today, not yet. I will be entirely proper for my caller, but I must allow all my cheek an avenue of escape first."

"You are hardly impertinent," Lydia said.

"Yes I am. I am just better at keeping it controlled that I once was."

How was that possible? Miss Fitzgilbert seemed so perfect. "I am not sure I shall ever learn."

"You do not give yourself enough credit. You have been a very good roommate to me." Juliana said.

Miss Fitzgilbert nodded vigorously. "And not half so uppity as I expected you would be when you first arrived."

Lydia flinched. Had she really been so dreadful?

"Oh, I am sorry, that did not come out right at all." Miss Fitzgilbert dropped to the steps and covered her face with her apron. "I am forever saying shocking things. I shall never learn. What a cake I will make of myself to Sir Anthony. Then he will not have me, and my father…"

Julianna embraced her. "There now, do not make more of this than there is. We are all friendly and comfortable here and speak very freely. You are always the most proper among us when we are in other company. You shall do very well."

Lydia patted her shoulder. "Yes you shall."

"Dry your eyes now and let us get you upstairs. Lydia must make you very beautiful for your suitor."

Helping Miss Fitzgilbert was much like helping Jane or Kitty dress for an event, but at the same time, nothing like it. If a young man did not fancy one of her sisters, it was a disappointment. Mama would rail on about it for weeks, but nothing more. Here, the stakes were so much higher.

Miss Fitzgilbert had shown them the letter her father dictated to his secretary. He did not deign to write the words himself. This was to be her last term at Mrs. Drummond's. Either she marry the suitor he provided, or she find a situation. If the former, she would be admitted to the family circles once again, assuming of course her conduct was beyond reproach. If the latter, none of the family would see her or even speak her name again.

Lydia clutched Miss Fitzgilbert's hairbrush tightly and tried not to pull her hair. Papa had told her that she might not return home either. He did not rescue Lizzy from Lady Catherine. He would have no qualms about sending her into service. But Mr. Darcy…he said…he promised that if Mrs. Drummond declared her improved, he would find a situation for her. He was certainly too proud to force his sister into something horrible. He had sent her here after all and bad as it was, it as a far cry better than—she shuddered—so many of the places Mrs. Drummond made them call upon.

But what did improvement look like? Miss Fitzgilbert? She was everything pretty and proper… and dull. She had no imagination, no sparkle. Was that necessary to be improved?

Perhaps Mr. Amberson would know.

"Lydia?" Juliana touched her arm. "Wool gathering again?"

"Just a bit." Hopefully Juliana would not see though her very false smile. She tucked another pin into Miss Fitzgilbert's glistening auburn hair. "How do you like it?"

She leaned toward the looking glass and turned to and fro. "I hardly recognize myself. It has been ever so long since my hair has been done up. I feel so pretty. I think I can face Sir Anthony."

"Then let us help you dress, and you will be certain." Juliana opened the wardrobe and removed a white muslin gown trimmed with the most exquisite lace.

"You know, I have only worn this once before. I was surprised I was allowed to keep it when Father sent me away."

"I am glad you did for it is perfect to meet your knight." Julianna helped her out of her day dress.

"It almost seems too fine for me now." Miss Fitzgilbert slipped her arms through the delicate sleeves.

"Not at all," Mrs. Drummond said from the doorway.

When had she arrived?

"It is entirely fitting for the occasion. I would have a few words in private with you now. Lydia, go and put on something pretty yourself. You should appear fitting company for Miss Fitzgilbert."

"Truly, madam? I may dress up?"

"Yes, but do not be too long at it—you cannot make Sir Anthony wait."

"I will see she is on time." Juliana hooked her arm in Lydia's and guided her to their room.

"Do let me dress you. I know just what you should wear."

How thrilling. Her skin tingled as she peeled off the dark drab gown and changed it for lovely light sprigged muslin. Light and bright and pretty—fit to catch the eye of—What was she thinking? Sir Anthony must not think her prettier than Miss Fitzgilbert. She pulled a fichu from the press and tied it over her bodice.

"Oh, that looks very nice." Juliana clapped softly. "Let me fix your cap. You are so pretty today. It makes me glad to see you his way."

Jane used to say that. Lydia grabbed Juliana in an awkward embrace and sniffled into her shoulder.

"Do not cry. Your nose will go all red and runny and ruin the effect."

They giggled and the door swung open.

"Very good, Lydia. I am pleased to see you ready. Come downstairs with us now. Julianna, you have been up and about far too much. You must lie down and rest now." Mrs. Drummond pointed to her bed.

Lydia followed Mrs. Drummond out and met Miss Fitzgilbert in the hall. How pale and even frightened she looked—nothing like the confident, commanding head girl who led the line of girls where ever they went.

Lydia took her hand and held it hard as they walked downstairs. Miss Fitzgilbert clutched her fingers so tightly it hurt, but it felt good at the same time.

"Wait in the drawing room, girls. I will show him in myself when he arrives." Mrs. Drummond left them staring at each other.

Miss Fitzgilbert paced along the floral boarder of the carpet. "This waiting shall drive me mad."

"Come sit with me at the pianoforte. We can play—" Lydia rummaged through several sheets of music. "—this one together. I am still not very good at it, but you can help me and pass the time in useful engagement. Or if you do not like that, I can fetch a workbasket from the parlor."

"No, no, music is an excellent diversion. It is most engaging," she giggled. "And if he hears, it will show off one of my accomplishments—"

"—and your sweet disposition, playing patiently with a girl of such inferior talents."

Miss Fitzgilbert's jaw dropped, but no words came forth. She pressed her cheek to Lydia's and sat at the pianoforte.

Midway through their second repetition, the door swung open and Mrs. Drummond announced, "Sir Anthony, may I present Lady Annabelle and her friend, Miss Bennet."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14 **

Miss Fitzgilbert transformed into Lady Annabelle at the mere expression of her name. She curtsied with a flawless grace, one Lydia had been unable to attain despite devoted hours of practice. Perfect posture and elegant movement left the drab little drawing room feel positively shabby. Compared to her, Lydia was nothing more than a clumsy little country girl in a vaguely pretty dress.

Lydia swallowed hard. Compared to the other girls in their limited little circle in Kent, she shone as a beauty among the thorns. Mama encouraged her pride and confidence, so Jane's warnings to maintain her humility were easy to ignore. Yet, Jane had been right.

No wonder none of the fine gentlemen who visited Rosings paid her any mind. Their attentions were reserved for Jane and Lizzy. Only Mr. Wickham, a gambling debtor and no gentleman, paid her any attentions, and even he tried for shy, but elegant Miss Darcy. He would consider her a tattered bit of muslin next to one like Lady Annabelle.

Sir Anthony bowed with an elegance to match hers. While certainly no youth, no one would deem him an old man, thirty five, perhaps a little more, but no more than forty. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance." His voice was smooth and polished, fitting his face perfectly. No dandy, but no doubt his valet was kept well-employed.

"Please, sit down. I shall send tea." Mrs. Drummond gave Lydia a stern look and left.

Miss Fitzgilbert moved toward the faded couch. "Will you sit with me sir?"

Not a large man, he moved with economy and purpose and sat on the faded wingback nearby. "I heard music when I came in. Was that you playing?"

"Miss Bennet and I were playing together." She held her chin up bravely, but her voice felt as uncertain as Lydia's fingering on their last duet.

"I was told you played well. It was not a misplaced compliment. I am fond of music and pleased to see you are as well." His smile felt a little forced, but his tone was genuine enough.

"Thank you, sir. Our music master here is an excellent teacher."

Lydia faded back and settled at the dainty writing desk near the window.

"If you like, once we…ah you come to Parnam Hall, I am willing to hire a music master to help you continue your studies, if you like." He leaned forward a little, as if to catch her gaze. A shock of mahogany hair fell across his eye.

"That is very gracious of you sir, but I would not have you so put out on my account." Miss Fitzgilbert gripped her hands tightly and looked away.

Sir Anthony sighed and pushed the hair out of his face. "What have you been told of me?" His posture relaxed a mite, sloughing off some of his formality.

"That you are a knight, twice widowed and newly out of mourning. You have three sons and a daughter, only your daughter is younger than I. You wish to reenter society and need a hostess for your homes." Her voice was high and tight as the highest keys on the pianoforte.

"A drab if factual portrayal, I suppose." He sniffed and glanced around the room. "Although it is worth noting only my eldest son is older than you. His mother died in childbirth with my third son. My daughter is now thirteen and away at seminary. Consumption claimed her mother just after Twelfth Night."

"I am sorry."

Lydia opened the writing desk. Fresh paper and a nubby little pencil, just sharp enough for her purposes greeted her. Thank heavens! She might do something other than simply watch the uncomfortable affair.

"And what have you been told of me, sir?" Miss Fitzgilbert whispered, color fading from her cheeks so rapidly she might disappear altogether.

Lydia nearly dropped the lid of the desk on her fingers. She screwed her eyes shut and held her breath. Sir Anthony did not look like a cruel man, but neither did Papa, yet that did not stop his sharp tongue.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know that you were sent to Mrs. Drummond to curb behavior that your father found inappropriate and unmanageable."

She bit her lip and silently acknowledged the truth of it. "Is that all?"

The poor girl might dissolve into tears if he asked anything else. Pray, let him not!

He touched her chin and made her look at him.

Oh, the gentleness of his hand and the softness of his eye! Lydia's pencil flew into motion.

"You wonder if I have been privy to all the sordid details of your loss of virtue? Yes I have."

A little cry caught in her throat.

"In far more detail than I will ever repeat." He brushed a stray lock from her forehead. "I expect you wonder how—not if—I shall hold it against you?"

Miss Fitzgilbert stiffened and turned away, arms rigid and hands balled in her lap.

He cupped her cheek, then stood and paced the length of the room.

Lydia shrank in her seat. Pray let him not notice her!

"A man should expect virtue in a woman, should he not?" He huffed and studied the ceiling roses. "I certainly did, at least at one time I did." He barked a bitter-tasting sound that could not rightfully be called a laugh. "Fool that I was, I did, not once, but twice. Do you wish to know what happened?"

She lifted her hands, pushing away the notion. "There is no need, sir…"

"Perhaps not, but at least I know I shall not ruin your delicacy by telling you."

She hid her face in her shoulder.

Perhaps he was more like Papa than he seemed at first glance.

"Not one, but both my wives took lovers and not discreetly. While your disgrace was quietly handled and largely kept from the scandal sheets, mine was aired far and wide for all to revel in my humiliation."

Miss Fitzgilbert turned to face him full on, such compassion in her eyes, tears sprang to Lydia's. "I am so very sorry to hear that. I had no idea."

"I am not surprised." He tossed his head. "Your brother and father are quite keen to marry you off. They would not have you know anything that might poison you against me. It would ruin their hopes if you were to refuse me."

She stood, her air more that of Miss Fitzgilbert than Lady Annabelle. "Do I not deserve to know the truth about you as much as you deserve to know about me?"

Lydia nearly dropped her pencil. Papa would have flown into a rage at such a bold remark.

"They did not tell me you had such a spark." He chuckled, a far gentler sound than before. "I might just enjoy a woman with a bit of backbone to her."

"I do not hide it well. Father found it quite disagreeable." She ducked behind the wingback, gripping the back so tightly her fingers turned white.

"I could see why he might. Your mother is a meek accommodating soul."

"Who has never voiced disagreement with him or acted contrary to his wishes. She is mild and obedient and pleasant. She has never held an opinion in her life and consults him on all matters, large and small. Is that the kind of wife you seek?" Her eyes narrowed as though throwing down an unseen gauntlet.

Oh, Mrs. Drummond would not approve of this direction of conversation, but what could she do? Only a fool would step between such ready combatants. Lydia coughed less than daintily.

Miss Fitzgilbert glanced at Lydia and rolled her eyes. "My friend seeks to remind me that I should adhere to more proper areas of conversation."

"Good advice to be sure." He swallowed back a chuckle and ushered Miss Fitzgilbert back to her seat.

He returned to the wingback. "But in answer to your question, I thought I fancied an easy, agreeable temperament in a wife."

"You thought?"

"Yes, and I believed I had attained it, twice only to find my virility questioned by those same agreeable women in the lines of the scandal sheets." His face flushed.

Lydia gulped. Pray, do not let Mrs. Drummond ask for the details of this conversation!

"Great heavens, how awful!" She pressed her hands to her scarlet—nearly purple—cheeks. "I cannot imagine."

He caught her gaze. "I can assure you, those accusations were utterly false."

"I…I…"

"You would have wondered and I am far too proud to allow that." He rose and crossed to the pianoforte. "My reputation has been sorely used, and I am not so wealthy that those scandals—especially twice over are easily overlooked."

"Which is why you would consider marriage to me, damaged goods, but privately damaged so as not to add to your public grief. With my excellent dower and connections, marriage to me may help mend your reputation."

"We are both damaged goods, Lady Annabelle. Though your father and brother may make light of it, I do not. Few respectable women would give me a second thought, and I fear the same is true for you. We are equals in many ways."

She stood, all the poise of the lady returning. "Equals? It has been a long time since anyone of worth called me an equal."

Lydia gripped her pencil so hard her fingers hurt. Had anyone ever considered her their equal. Perhaps Kitty did … but her elder sisters did not. They looked down on her, even though she was far prettier than they. The Bingley sisters went out of their way not to speak to her and Miss Darcy was too shy to speak to anyone. Mr. Wickham did not consider her an equal, not when he asked Mr. Darcy to pay him for marrying her.

Sir Anthony turned to face Miss Fitzgilbert. "I believe our chances of an amiable match are better than many. Neither of us hold too many romantic illusions anymore. I have no expectation of love—I am too cynical for that. I believe though we share an understanding of being ill-used by others. I should hope that might inform the way we would treat one another."

"That…that seems reasonable."

"Mrs. Drummond assures me of your character and accomplishments, and I do not think her a woman prone to excessive compliments."

A little smile lit her face. "No she is not."

"She vouches quite well for you. I should hope your father and brother's support speaks well of me—at least well enough."

She twitched her head in a little non-committal gesture.

"I had hoped it would be more meaningful, but perhaps I should not be surprised. No doubt you believe they would happily see you married to a bounder if it meant a respectable name and home for you."

"That was the impression I was left with."

His head tipped back and he laughed, full and rich. "You shall be a very different kind of partner in my home. I think perhaps a change for the better. Let me speak on my own behalf then. I shall offer you a generous settlement with sufficient pin money and a jointure that you may be content with both your present and future lot. I like to entertain often and expect you to be a good hostess and welcome many guests into my home. Travel is another of my pleasures and I expect you to travel with me and fulfill my need for companionship … in all its forms." His eyes narrowed.

She blushed and closed her eyes, nodding once.

"If you come with child. I will see the babe educated and given everything they are due as my child."

"What more could a woman ask? You seem quite perfect."

He winced. "Your tongue is rather sharp. I imagine you have been told?"

"Indeed I have. Whilst I do usually keep it under good regulation, I find I am apt to slip when my intelligence is being insulted."

Lydia coughed again.

"No, I will not retreat. I know of what I am capable and what I am not. Best you know it too before we are linked in name and in misery." She lifted her chin, but it quivered.

"Very well, Miss Fitzgilbert, if you must know, I am known as a generous man, but I am also jealous. I do not appreciate other men attending to my wife, nor her accepting their attentions. I am forgetful and that has been mistaken as neglectful, so my wives have complained. I am a vain man and enjoy compliments a bit too much. Apparently, I am not easy to live with."

"In that, I suppose we are equals as well. My sisters have accused me of vanity and being quite impossible. I understand your disposition to jealous, but I too have a jealous streak. I like attention and am not shy in asking for it."

"So you are not perfect either."

"Hardly, but I do not pretend to be so. Am I still so appealing, knowing my deeper flaws?

"You think that my list is complete? Hardly, I assure you. I am surly in the morning; prefer coffee to tea; and like far too many sweets. I dislike feather headdresses on women—they are ladies, not birds—green things on my plate; and improperly starched cravats. "

"And I sir, am apt to speak my mind too easily and hold opinions in contrary to what is popular. I like pretty dresses and enjoy balls and parties. I am fonder of chocolate than coffee. I hate to play cards and have all but forgotten how to dance. I have lost my virtue, but I shall not jeopardize my respectability again. I will guard your honor, zealously. In gratitude of the honor you do me, I will be a pleasing companion to you … in all its forms."

The tension left his shoulders and he reached out to her. "Despite my flaws, I hope you might find me a pleasing friend."

She rose and took his hand. "I have need of more friends and welcome your friendship."

He raised it to his lips and brushed her knuckles in a kiss. "We are agreed then?"

"Yes sir, it is agreed."

"I shall call regularly that we might come to know one another better whilst the settlement is being reached. I expect perhaps six, maybe eight weeks before it is all arranged."

"I welcome the opportunity to come to know you better." Her eyes glistened, and she pressed her lips into something like a smile.

"From where do you wish to be married?"

"Here, if you and Mrs. Drummond are willing. There is little point trying to be married from my father's house. I fear it would only result in scenes disagreeable to all."

"I expect you are correct. I would prefer to avoid the attention a wedding in town would draw. Assuming Mrs. Drummond is agreeable, I shall make arrangements for her to send you to the local dress maker for a few things, including a dress for the wedding, a pretty fashionable one. Proper things for the London season can be ordered in town."

"That is most generous of you, sir."

"I would have you think that of me, but it is not all altruistic on my part. We both have reputations in need of repair, and it will help for both of us to look the part."

"I will not embarrass you sir. I do know how to curb my tongue in company."

"I count on that. But do not think me so dour and severe. I do want for you to like me. Perhaps…would it be agreeable for me to hire a dance master to come here and refresh your dance steps? I hope to have many opportunities to dance and would not have you uncomfortable at a ball."

"The offer is most kind, but I do not believe it would be well received to be the only one receiving lessons."

"Of course, I intend that he would teach all of the girls here."

She brightened and "With Mrs. Drummond's permission, I think it would be quite agreeable and very generous. I would very much like to dance again."

"Then I shall endeavor to make it so."

The door swung open and Mrs. Drummond entered with a tea tray.

"Just the person I would speak to!" he said.

Mrs. Drummond sighed a little and some of the lines melted from her face. "Miss Bennet, you are wanted upstairs."

Clearly she was not, but it was a polite dismissal—and a welcome one—nonetheless. Lydia gathered up her drawings.

"Excuse me," she approached the couch and turned to Sir Anthony. "I…I thought you might like these to look upon as you become acquainted. I hope it is appropriate." She handed each a drawing of the other.

They pressed shoulders together and looked at both sketches.

"Thank you," Miss Fitzgilbert whispered.

"These are remarkable. I shall be very pleased to carry home your likeness." Sir Anthony held it out for Mrs. Drummond to see.

Mrs. Drummond smiled and dipped her head. Lydia hurried out, shutting the door behind her.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15 **

Lydia dashed upstairs. Thank heavens nearly everyone else was away and Juliana asleep. Company of any kind would be unbearable and prying questions, disastrous. How could she answer anyone else's questions when she had no answers of her own?

She ducked into the school room and sat near the window, staring at the drawing she did not give away. The moments of angst and anguish as secrets were laid out, far too naked to one another. Such things that were said! Mama would have been shocked at such a conversation. How could they have possibly discussed details of Sir Anthony's masculine performance and their expectations of 'companionship'? They had only met moments before.

Had Miss Fitzgilbert really sunk so low that she was beyond even common consideration in conversation? What gentleman said such things? She was a lady, Lady Annabelle! Certainly that should mean something, should it not?

She wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked. If a gentleman could speak that way to a woman like Miss Fitzgilbert how might they treat her? Would a man expect to know everything she had done? Would he judge her the way Papa and Uncle Gardiner had: unclean and untouchable? They were ready to cast her into the street. Was the best she could do a man that saw her tarnished and tainted? Had Wickham truly ruined her? Was she now only second hand goods fit for only a man tainted by scandal himself?

Lydia pressed her temples and screwed her eyes shut, but that did not make answers come more easily. A scream welled up in her chest, but she must not allow it out, but if she did not, the pressure would surely kill her.

Trembling hands fumbled for the easel and affixed her drawing—two anguished profiles facing one another. She pulled out the water colors Miss Honeywell has recently begun to teach her to use. A cup of murky water sat on the shelf next to them. Miss Honeywell had scolded her for not properly cleaning up after she was done, but this time it served her well, for if she did not put brush to paper soon, she would burst.

Instead of coloring the faces accurately, dark and stormy colors drew her. Her brush strokes evoked a thunderstorm that echoed the faces even as it obscured them. Somehow it helped for all the turmoil in her heart to take form on the paper in front of her. It was safer there than within her. There she might examine it, consider it, control it. She panted hard and her heart slowed its breakneck pace.

Her final stroke off balanced the easel and sent it clattering to the ground. She fell to her chair, face in hands, weeping.

"Miss Bennet?" Mr. Amberson's voice came from the door way. His long steps approached.

She looked up into his deeply lined face and struggled to choke back a fresh sob.

"What happened to your easel? Are you hurt? Did Miss Fitzgilbert's company say something unkind to you?" He scanned the room as if that would provide him the answers he sought.

How could words express what her paint might barely contain? She shook her head and pointed to the easel on the floor.

He righted it and stared at the painting. Edging closer, he peered at the figures and drew in a ragged breath. Tears welled in his eyes, but he dragged his sleeve across them. "Miss Bennet…"

She gasped. He understood! He understood!

Fresh sobs broke the fragile surface of her calm and she crumpled to the floor under their weight.

Warmth surrounded her and pulled her into a strong angular shoulder that smelled of shaving oil, rosin and wood smoke.

"What did they say?" he asked softly, as though he knew loud sounds might shatter her.

She pressed into his safety and protection. "They barely noticed I was there."

"Then what?"

"They both acknowledged she was ruined…but she is so much more, so much better than I…I am ruined…I am…" the words could not escape as she fought for breath.

He held her more tightly and cradled her head under his chin.

"My aunt…my sister and father…they all said…I did not believe. But they were right! I am worth nothing now and no one will ever have me! What hope have I? I will never…there is no future for me…"

He crooned a soothing sound and held her to his shoulder with one hand. With the other he fumbled in his pocket and pressed a crumpled handkerchief into her hand.

"Our world is a very unforgiving place, Miss Bennet." He hunkered, tailor style, beside her. "Intolerant and often very cruel."

She sniffed and pressed the soft silk handkerchief to her face. It smelled like him.

"It takes very little to be ruined in the eyes of and there are many ways in which to be stained. For some, all it requires is to be different from what is typical, something I know well. Those of us who perform for pleasure of others are welcome enough to entertain, but the very things which make us pleasing also make us suspect and we must satisfy ourselves with only the fringes of polite society. I have seen it many times."

"Why?"

"I suppose, though I do not rightly know, that art invokes such passion that it cannot be deemed entirely safe or proper nor can its practitioners. We are a breed apart, I suppose. Anything or anyone that reminds polite society of anything uncomfortable risks being called undesirable."

She scrubbed at the freshet of tears trailing down her face. "Then everything they said was true. I am—"

"I do not think you are ruined. I think you have been tried and are learning from those trials. It is the way one acquires depth and honesty in their work."

"What matter is depth and honesty when no one will even look at you?"

"Who do you need to look at you? Those fops and dandies on the street? Those proud and judgmental matrons whose goodness is defined in their distance from your sin?"

""My…my sin?" He thought of her as Sir Anthony did Miss Fitzgilbert, damaged, ruined, to be settled for, endured. She pulled back and huddled into a tight knot, face in her hands.

Long, strong fingers cupped her face and urged her to look up. "We are all sinners, Miss Bennet. The only differences are who knows about it and how harshly others judge it. But, I believe, at the end of days, no one can claim innocence."

"Then why is there so much condemnation? How can you speak of it so easily?"

"Condemnation is far easier than compassion, though I cannot pretend to understand why. As to why I can speak of it—do not think yourself the only unfortunate to have known the sting of a fall."

"You?"

"I have been unwise in many things—I would tell you, but neither of us would benefit from a recounting of my own follies any more than we would of yours."

How much did he know of her past? That she was here to begin with surely spoke volumes. Had he been told more?

"I can see the question in your eyes, and no, I do not know your particulars and I do not wish to any more than I wish to relive my own. I will tell you this. I came to my Aunt's establishment in hopes that my own transgressions would fade in society's memory. I am not proud of many things I have said and done. Do you hate me now, knowing I am far from untouched?"

She looked into his eyes. A shock of hair fell over his forehead and she brushed it back into place. He leaned into her fingertips just a little and she traced the creases beside his eyes.

"I do not think I could ever hate you."

His lips curled into his funny lopsided little smile. "I am pleased to hear it. Knowing you thought ill of me would be devastating."

He cared for her good opinion?

His cheeks bunched up and he chuckled. "Perhaps it will amuse you to know, Aunt Drummond made certain I was well-repentant before she permitted me a place here."

"So she is as formidable toward you as she is to the rest of us?"

"More so I think."

Lydia laughed with him until more tears flowed.

"A bit ridiculous is it not?" He blotted his eyes with the edges of his coat. "So you see, my dear, Miss Bennet. I cannot, dare not consider you tainted. We are equals." He caught a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb.

"Mr. Amberson? Miss Bennet?" Mrs. Drummond's sharp voice split the air. Her footsteps beat a tattoo on the floorboards until she towered over them. "I would see you in my office immediately, James."

He flashed his eyebrows at Lydia and clambered to his feet.

"Miss Bennet." He helped her up, bowed and left.

Lydia snuffled and dabbed her eyes, hands quivering again.

"Why were you on the floor?"

"I was clumsy and knocked the easel over. Mr. Amberson helped me right it."

"That does not explain why you were on the floor just now." Mrs. Drummond crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot, just like Mama did when she suspected prevarication.

"It is just too much to bear, madam , the things Sir Anthony said to her—and she agreed! He sees her as...as disgraced." She wrapped her arms around her waist, but it did not ease the gnawing pain stomach.

Mrs. Drummond's eyes widened and her eyebrow arched. "That disturbed you?"

"She is the best among us and if she is so low—" Lydia bit her knuckle.

"You have had a painful revelation. I understand that is indeed a very heavy thing to carry." Mrs. Drummond sighed heavily. "As difficult as it is, there is another perspective to consider as well, one that is somewhat brighter. Miss Fitzgilbert has been offered a rare and precious opportunity to redeem herself from her fall, one that very few are offered."

"I…I know," she whispered.

"Though I know this does not fulfill romantic fantasies you or she might still entertain, now is not the time for fantasies. We must do all that we can to help her move forward with this plan. It is the right thing for her, and I think for Sir Anthony as well. Moreover, there is no telling when she might be able to extend herself to the benefit of one of you girls. She will have many connections in the future and is of a mind to be a benefactrix of as many of our girls as she can."

"She is very kind."

"But for now, she needs support from all corners. She has requested that you be her chaperone and companion when Sir Anthony calls and when she goes for her fittings at the shops."

"Me? Why?" How could she face Sir Anthony again, knowing what he thought of Miss Fitzgilbert…and her.

"I do not know. You have shown yourself enough improved, though, that I am inclined to give my permission. I expect you to keep her confidences and guard her best interests. This is a position of trust and not to be taken lightly. Do not attempt to use this opportunity for your own ends."

Lydia gulped. "No, madam, I will not."

"You must help her if she falters. She does not fathom that I might understand how she feels. Be sure that I do, though. I am also am entirely aware that her feelings are secondary to the reality of her situation. I cannot allow her to throw away a second chance at her future, nor will I allow anyone else to jeopardize it. Can I rely upon you? Are you worthy to be trusted with such a burden?"

Lydia studied her feet, shuffling them across the dusty floor. "Sir Anthony was far kinder to her than he might have been. It may not be what she might have hoped for, but it is far better to be a mistress of her own house than to be in service for someone else. Sir Anthony will give her that at least. I will help her."

That evening, at the end of dinner, Mrs. Drummond stood and addressed her students. "Girls I have a very exciting announcement."

Amelia leaned toward Joan and Lydia. "She has found rich suitors to marry us all."

Joan giggled.

Lydia's cheeks burned. Was it possible Amelia know of Miss Fitzgilbert's caller? Pray let it not be so. Mrs. Drummond would surely blame her.

"An anonymous benefactor," Mrs. Drummond stared straight at Lydia, "has determined you all should be able to dance."

Gasps and excited titters filled the room. Lydia squirmed in her seat.

"A dance master has been arranged to instruct all of you, beginning later this week. Following your lessons with Miss Thornton, you shall report to the music room where Mr. Chadwick shall tutor you, with the assistance of Mr. Amberson on the pianoforte. Keep in mind, this is to be considered a privilege, one that may be revoked for any of you if I am given reason. The music room will have to be cleaned each week prior to your lessons. The duty will be rotated among all of you."

Lydia groaned along with the rest.

"You are all dismissed." Mrs. Drummond rose and led the teachers out.

"Did you hear—a dance master!" Joan squealed.

Amelia hugged herself. "I am wild for dancing! It has been ever so long. I am shocked missus would permit us to dance, even if someone else pays the bill."

"I wonder who it is paying," Joan whispered as they walked in the middle of the knot of girls to the parlor. "She was looking right at you when she said it. I wonder why."

"I do not know. You know how cross she is. Perhaps she was scowling at the soup I dripped on my dress." Lydia plucked at the splotchy bodice. Hopefully the broth would not stain her gown.

"Perhaps." Amelia sidled close. "But I think not. I think you know a great deal more than you are telling us."

"Yes, were you not here with Juliana when we were all out? You must have seen or heard something."

Lydia backed away. "I…I did not hear any conversation of hers. I did not go near her office at all."

"Perhaps that was not necessary. Perhaps word came to you." Amelia poked her shoulder.

They filed into the parlor. Joan grabbed her elbow and guided her to an empty corner, away from the rest. She tried to pull away, but Amelia blocked her path.

"Why would anything come to me?" Lydia peeked around Amelia and sidestepped, only to be cut off again.

"We were sent for the post yesterday." Joan smiled a maddening little smile.

"There was a letter for the missus that bore the Darcy crest." Amelia waggled her shoulder and smirked.

"How would you know the Darcy crest?" Lydia tossed her head and snorted.

The Darcy crest was not too difficult to recognize, Amelia might well be able to identify it. But why would Mr. Darcy write to Mrs. Drummond? Her heart drummed against her ribs so hard it hurt. Did he inquire after her progress? What would Mrs. Drummond tell him? Mrs. Drummond had said this very afternoon that she had improved enough to be trusted with Miss Fitzgilbert. That should be proof to Mr. Darcy that she had progressed, should it not?

Joan smirked and Amelia looked away.

"I think he ordered the dance lessons," Amelia whispered.

"He hates me. Why would he do that?"

From the corner of her eye she saw Mr. Amberson sit at the pianoforte.

"Why does any woman need to be able to dance?" Joan sing-songed.

"We think he has a suitor in mind for you. He wants to marry you off so he won't have to maintain you any longer."

"If so, at least it is to a man who likes to dance. That cannot be such a bad thing." Lydia backed up and dodged to her left, but Joan was faster than she and blocked her way. Botheration!

"What if he is a dance master who does not wish to be humiliated by a cloddish wife?" Joan leaned in to her face and sniggered.

"Who will beat you if you get the steps wrong?" Amelia tittered.

"Mr. Darcy might hate me, but I do not believe he would send me to be beaten either."

"He sent you here, did he not?" Joan rubbed the back of her skirts.

"Just stop it! You are horrid." Lydia shoved Joan toward Amelia.

Amelia caught her and helped Joan regain her balance.

"You cannot take a joke can you?" Joan brushed her sleeve.

"I am in no mood." Lydia stalked away.

Ruth and Juliana beckoned her over.

"They have been in high dudgeon all day," Ruth muttered. "Would you believe they were jealous you got to stay behind to help with chores. As if they would have done anything had they been chosen to stay and help."

"I think I would rather polish andirons than go anywhere with them." Lydia sat between them at the small card table.

"They hate visiting the gaol." Juliana glanced over her shoulder. "I hated it too. The worst place we ever had to call upon. You cannot blame their ill-humor."

"You are far too generous," Ruth said. "I can certainly blame them. They have been awful to me all day. They were supposed to help me carry the big basket."

"They left you to manage it alone like they did to me?" Lydia shuffled the cards aimlessly.

"Joan helped a little, a very little, but Amelia…I do not know what she did, but she disappeared shortly after we left and did not reappear until we had nearly made it back. Then she had the spleen to complain about how her back and shoulders hurt form carrying all that load herself."

Lydia sneered. "Sounds exactly like her. Does Mrs. Drummond know?"

"I had thought to tell her, but she has been so very preoccupied today. I was afraid she would get angry with me for bothering her." Ruth shrugged and glanced toward Mrs. Drummond.

"Did Miss Honeywell and Miss Thornton not notice her missing?" Lydia asked.

"Miss Honeywell asked after her and Joan said she had gone one an errand for Miss Thornton. I was with Miss Thornton's group all day and I know Amelia never spoke with Miss Thornton at all."

"And Miss Honeywell probably never thought to ask Miss Thornton about it?" Lydia rapped the deck of cards on the table.

"I guess not."

"Oh, listen, Mr. Amberson is going to play for us." Juliana pointed. "I have never heard anyone who plays like him."

Lydia turned to face the pianoforte. He drew a deep breath and half closed his eyes, the way he always did when he was about to play something of his own composition. It was pleasant when he played anything for them, but music of his own writing was a special treat indeed.

The notes started softly at first, a kitten peeking around a corner, jumping at dust motes in a sunbeam.

Lydia rose and drifted toward the pianoforte. She had to watch his hands.

They flowed and danced across the keys, tension building. The veins and small bones stood out as his key strokes grew stronger, darker. The playful kitten turned into a stalking cat, instilling fear into its prey.

His wrists and arms corded, strength surging with each note.

Her heart matched the tempo of the music, catching in her throat and stealing her breath. She clutched the side of the pianoforte, lest her knees give way. That melody, though she had never heard it, she knew it. There was no mistaking it was the keening of her heart in the school room, the song of the painting she had shown him.

He had said he understood. He had not been simply placating or being nice. He knew and was playing it out for everyone to hear.

How could he? They would…she cast about he room. Some were talking among themselves; some played cards. Miss Long read. A few listened, but none, not even the teachers truly heard what he was playing.

He opened his eyes and caught her gaze. He was playing for her and her alone.

Her vision blurred. He could not leave the school now. Pray let him not! He had not said anything about it, so perhaps she had misunderstood what she had heard through Mrs. Drummond's office wall. Pray let it be so.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Three days later, Miss Thornton struggled to teach the day's geography lesson. The dance master's impending visit and all the speculations of what it might mean and to whom, distracted the entire group. After asking the same question three times and receiving no answers, she surrendered to the futility. Miss Thornton instructed them to sketch a copy of the map of Europe that hung on the wall and label it completely.

Copying maps was a dreadful, dull exercise. Lydia bit her lip to avoid muttering under her breath. On the other hand, though dull, it was far better than hearing Miss Thornton drone on about whatever she had been talking about.

Lydia trimmed a sheet of foolscap and smoothed it across the desk. Where to begin? A compass rose perhaps? That at least could be made interesting.

Amelia shoved a wrinkled piece of paper at her.

_I know your secret._

Lydia gulped and scribbled back. _What secret?_

_The suitor._

No! Lydia gasped. How could Amelia have found out about Sir Anthony? How long would it be before she told everyone who would listen about Miss Fitzgilbert's caller? More important, how was Lydia to convince Miss Fitzgilbert and Mrs. Drummond she had not broken the confidences they had entrusted to her. _What suitor?_

Amelia rolled her eyes._ The maid saw you with him while we were all at the gaol._

_I was here all the time._

_So was Mr. Amberson._

Mr. Amberson? Not Sir Anthony…

Lydia's face turned cold, and she nearly dropped her pencil. _And Mrs. Drummond and Cook and Juliana. They were all here._

Amelia smiled her special thin sneer. _You are trying to seduce him._

Lydia snatched the note and crumpled it into a tiny ball. Amelia tried to grab it away, but Lydia dropped it into her bodice where it lodged just under the busk of her stays.

Miss Thornton looked up from her desk and gazed narrowly at them. Amelia huffed and returned to her map.

Lydia's heart raced wildly, thumping against the scratchy paper in her stays. It itched and drove her thoughts faster still. Seduce Mr. Amberson? She had never even flirted with him. How could she be trying to seduce him?

Why would Amelia say such a thing?

Would she tell Mrs. Drummond?

If she did, what would Mrs. Drummond do? Would she believe Amelia? What would she do if she did? Surely Mr. Amberson would vouch for her.

She dragged the back of her hand across her eyes. Of course he would, he would make sure Mrs. Drummond knew the truth. She had not behaved badly towards him.

Even if she did like him very much indeed.

She leaned back and chewed the end of her pencil. Great heavens, what had she just thought?

But it was true. She did like him, a great deal. A very great deal.

Young ladies were not supposed to like their tutors, though. Mama and Jane both warned her against it. Not that any tutor they ever studied with had been like Mr. Amberson.

What was she to do? Must she stop liking him? That was hardly possible. Nor could she bear to give up her lessons with him.

Did he even like her?

Mrs. Drummond strode into the school room. "The dance master has arrived. Put away your lessons and assemble in the music room."

The room erupted in excited chatter and titters.

Lydia put her map in her desk, keeping her eyes well away from Amelia. She hurried toward the front of the room and inserted herself with Miss Fitzgilbert, Miss Greenville and Ruth.

"Are you well?" Miss Fitzgilbert asked, looking over Lydia's head in Amelia's direction.

"I … I … am fine."

"I wager Joan and Amelia are being horrid again," Miss Greenville muttered, peeking over her shoulder.

"Amelia is so full of herself. She got another letter from her 'dear friend Frances' you know," Ruth said.

"It is a wonder she has not read it to us all—twice," Miss Fitzgilbert mumbled as they filed into the corridor.

"Why bother reading it to us when she makes it all up in any case." Miss Greenville tossed her head. "She might as well be reading from a library novel."

"Made up?" Lydia whispered.

"You cannot be so cakey as to think that nonsense she read us in class was true?"

Lydia shrugged and scooted into the music room.

Mrs. Drummond ushered the last girls in and clapped loudly. She strode to the top of the room where Mr. Amberson sat at the piano and another man stood beside him. "Mr. Chadwick, may I present your students." Mrs. Drummond introduced each of the girls.

Mr. Chadwick was a tiny black beetle of a man with a shiny bald pate and beady black eyes. His belly bulged just a little, but his limbs were lanky, with well-formed legs encased in very tight black breeches. Next to Mr. Amberson's unruly shock of dark hair and comfortable trousers, he seemed very hard and tight and pinchy.

"How many of you have received prior instruction in dance?' Mr. Chadwick looked directly at Miss Fitzgilbert.

Lydia winced. Did he have to be so very obvious?

All the girls nodded, some more vigorously than others.

"Excellent, excellent. Then stand up with a partner, and I shall lead you through some steps to see how you perform."

Miss Fitzgilbert grabbed her arm. "Stand up with me."

Mr. Chadwick directed them to take the place at the top of the set.

"I will take the gentlemen's side." Lydia moved to the left hand line. "You must remember how to be a proper lady."

Miss Fitzgilbert pressed her finger to her lips and glanced at Miss Greenville and Miss Long who stood next to them.

"Quickly now, take your places." Mr. Chadwick grabbed a walking stick and rapped it on the floor twice. "Take hands four from the top."

Lydia joined hands with her partner and the next couple. They shuffled to even out their group. Miss Greenville giggled nervously between Miss Fitzgilbert and Miss Long.

Mr. Chadwick rapped the floor again. "Attention, now. Drop hands and set to your partner."

Lydia skip-stepped to her right and left, matching steps with Miss Fitzgilbert.

"Set to your corner."

She repeated the exercise with Miss Greenville. The feeling of the footwork slowly came back to her. How long had it been since she had done even these few dance steps?

"Turn your partner by the right hand."

Lydia took Miss Fitzgilbert's right hand, and they danced a full turn back to their places.

"Turn you neighbor by the left."

Miss Long extended her right hand toward Lydia. Mr. Chadwick thumped her left calf with his stick. She yelped.

"Left, Miss Tall left."

"Miss Long," she squeaked and snatched her right hand back.

"Long, tall it is quite all the same. Either way, learn right from left!" He smacked her left leg again.

"Yes, sir." Miss Long extended her left hand.

Lydia took it, and they danced the turn.

"Join hands and circle left, one time around."

They turned in their circle, narrowly avoiding collision with the next group down. Their circle tended more toward oblong than round.

"No! No! No!" Mr. Chadwick's cane punctuated each word as he stomped toward the second group of four.

"You—" he pointed at Juliana. "You are waddling, not dancing."

"Yes, sir." Juliana looked at the floor.

"Dance is light and bright and sparkling, not fat and ponderous." He waved his stick at Mr. Amberson. "Play me some bars."

The music began and Mr. Chadwick counted aloud. "One—two—three—four. One—two—three—four. Turn with me, Miss Waddles." He offered Juliana his right hand and dragged her through a turn. Juliana could barely keep up. He repeated the exercise with Ruth, Stephanie and Joan who proved far more agile than Juliana.

"Now take hands and circle left … keep the count. You must return to your place by the last count. No! No, too slow!" He rapped his stick in time to the music. "Faster now. Light and bright. No fat ducks, beautiful swans. Faster! One, two three—"

Juliana screamed and stumbled.

Mr. Amberson stopped playing.

She clutched her belly and cried out again.

"Look!" Lydia pointed at a small pool of liquid on the floor beneath Juliana. She ran to Juliana's side.

Juliana's arms and legs went stiff and she fell into Lydia who eased her to the floor. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she began to convulse.

"James, fetch the midwife." Mrs. Drummond dropped to her knees beside them.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17 **

Girls gasped and gathered around in a ring, loosely surrounding them.

Lydia pointed at Miss Fitzgilbert. "You and Ruth, hold her, keep her from hurting herself. Miss Long, Miss Greenville fetch towels, as many as you can, and tell the cook to ready water for tea should the midwife have need."

Juliana fell limp to the floor.

"She's dead! She's dead!" someone shrieked. The voice sounded a bit like Amelia.

Lydia leaned down over Juliana's face. "She breathes! She lives!"

Amelia swooned, Mr. Chadwick caught her and laid her on the floor behind the gawking group. Probably just trying to get out of something unpleasant. Best not think about her now.

Juliana moaned and stirred, but her eyes remained closed.

"Juliana, Juliana!" Lydia patted her cheek, but she did not awaken. "We must get her to bed." Lydia waved her hand. "Mr. Chadwick, help us!"

Mrs. Drummond's brows rose high. "Excuse me?" Her voice was mild, more bewildered than angry.

"I have seen this before," Lydia whispered. "My father attended my mother's lying-ins. My sisters and I helped. This happened to her in her last confinement."

"How singular that you should have been exposed to such an indelicate—"

"Mama had rather singular notions regarding all things concerning confinements, travails and lyings-in, except of course how one came to be increasing." Lydia rolled her eyes.

Mrs. Drummond nodded. "Mr. Chadwick, assist us."

The ring of gawkers opened and he shuffled toward them.

"Take her shoulders, sir. We shall take her legs." Mrs. Drummond waved Lydia to join her.

"Give them room," Miss Thornton ordered, pushing several back out of the way.

They lifted Juliana and carried her to her room. Girls trailed along behind them, like lambs following their ewe.

"Rebecca, Stephanie, take Joan and Amelia and clean the floors." Mrs. Drummond pointed at them. "Miss Thornton, gather everyone downstairs. Send word to the parsonage that you will be bringing the girls to tea."

Miss Thornton blanched and swallowed hard.

Lydia's stomach knotted. Would Mrs. Drummond send everyone away if she anticipated a good outcome? Heavens, what was she expecting?

"Yes, madam." Miss Thornton ushered the girls down the hall.

"I will take my leave, madam, and return next week?" Mr. Chadwick asked, face pale and voice thin.

"Yes, yes, that will be acceptable. Thank you." Mrs. Drummond did not look at him as he left. "Get a nightdress." She pointed at the dresser.

Juliana's limbs stiffened and she began to convulse on the bed.

Lydia grabbed Juliana's arm and held her secure until the seizure stopped. She ran for the dresser and plucked a nightdress from the drawer.

Mrs. Drummond unfastened Juliana's dress. "Release her stays and help me get her into the nightdress."

The laces for the stays broke in Lydia's hand. "Do not worry. I shall replace them for you."

While they changed her, the maid rushed in and pulled the curtains shut. Lydia blinked in the sudden darkness. Somehow it always felt wrong for the room to be so dark and warm and closed up for a birth. The maid started a large fire. Ruth followed a moment later, hands laden with towels and sheets.

"Put them on the other bed and join the others downstairs," Mrs. Drummond ordered.

Ruth dropped her burden and fled.

Miss Fitzgilbert arrived, bearing a pitcher of water and a kettle, still steaming. She placed the kettle over the fire and set the pitcher on the washstand. "May I help?"

"No, Sir Anthony may be well content with you now, but I would not risk allowing you to stay only for him to decide that was disagreeable. Go downstairs. You too, Lydia."

"No…" Juliana groaned and clutched Lydia's hand. "Please, don't leave me…"

Lydia stroked hair back from Juliana's forehead. "No, no, I will stay. You do not need to be afraid."

"You should not—" Mrs. Drummond shook her head.

"I have sat with my mother through three lyings-in. Miss Fitzgilbert should go, but there is no reason to keep me from here."

Mrs. Drummond grunted and tipped her head toward the door.

Miss Fitzgilbert bit her lip and kissed Juliana's cheek. "Everything is going to be all right." She shuffled away.

Juliana groaned and clutched her belly. Blood-tinged water stained her nightdress and the bed clothes. Her head fell back and another seizure shook her.

Mrs. Drummond covered the bed with toweling. "Are you certain you wish to stay?"

Lydia's hands shook, but she set her jaw. Juliana wanted her here just as much as Mama had. This could not be worse than Mama's last lying-in, could it? "Yes."

Mrs. Harrow burst in, a large bag in hand. She brushed past Lydia and checked Juliana over, muttering under her breath.

"Her waters broke with the first fit. The fits continue…" Mrs. Drummond whispered.

"Her labor is progressing very fast." Mrs. Harrow trundled to the wash basin and washed her hands. "Whatever happens, it will not take long."

Juliana tossed her head against the pillow and breathed hard.

"The pains are very close together now." Mrs. Harrow clucked her tongue.

"My mother's last birth was like this." Lydia swallowed hard and looked from Juliana to Mrs. Harrow and Mrs. Drummond.

"How did she fare?" Mrs. Harrow dried her hands on a clean towel. Her voice was gentle. No wonder Juliana liked her despite her sometimes gruff façade.

"She lived, but it was hard and she has not had another confinement since."

"And the baby?"

Lydia shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. It had been a boy. Papa did not suffer the loss easily.

"Then we shall pray that Juliana may enjoy the same safe delivery that your mother did." Mrs. Harrow sat beside Juliana and took her hand. "There is reason to hope all will be well, girl. Stay strong, we shall not leave you."

Juliana's eyes peeked open and she groaned. "Hurts."

"That is the nature of it. You are fortunate, it is progressing quickly. Very soon it will be time for you to push." Mrs. Harrow stroked her forehead.

Juliana's eyes closed again and she sagged against the pillows.

"It is the fits, they have left her exhausted." She turned to her bag. "Here, girl, brew some tea with these." She passed Lydia a packet of herbs.

Lydia took the herbs and hurried to the kettle. Behind her Mrs. Harrow and Mrs. Drummond whispered. If she paid attention, she might be able to hear—

No, she did not want to hear it. Judging by their faces, their conversation was grim. Better to maintain her hope for the best, even for a little while.

She added the herbs to the hot water and watched as dark tendrils floated through the water, swirling and dancing together. What was in this brew? Would Papa approve? Did he even know about such things?

"I can see the head!" Mrs. Harrow cried.

"Come help me." Mrs. Drummond moved to the head of the bed.

Lydia hurried to the other side.

"Move her to the edge of the bed. We will help her to sit up. It will make the babe come easier."

Mrs. Harrow and Mrs. Drummond slid Juliana so that her legs hung off the end of the bed. Lydia helped Mrs. Drummond lift Juliana's shoulders.

"I can sit behind her and hold her against me," Lydia said.

"Do that." Mrs. Harrow prepared towels at the foot of the bed.

Lydia climbed on the bed behind Juliana and Mrs. Drummond lowered her limp form against Lydia.

Oh, she was heavy and her skin cool and clammy with sweat. She moaned and stirred restlessly.

"It is well. I am right here. You will be fine, and the babe will be here soon," Lydia whispered in her ear. Even if it were not true, it was best that Juliana believe that for now. If she gave up, things would only be more difficult.

"So soon?" Juliana murmured.

"Yes, you are doing so very well. It will be a very easy birth." Lydia wrapped her arms snuggly just above Juliana's belly.

The next contraction began, her belly hardening under Lydia's fingers.

"Push, girl, push," Mrs. Harrow commanded.

Juliana stiffened in Lydia's arms and her head fell hard against Lydia's shoulder. Convulsions wracked her body and Lydia struggled to hold her in place until she finally went limp again.

"She cannot push like this." Mrs. Drummond leaned over Mrs. Harrow.

"At the next contraction, get above her belly and push for her."

Mrs. Drummond wrestled her skirts to the side and clambered up on the bed.

"Shall I get down? There is no room." Lydia scooted aside as far as possible.

"No, you need to hold her up. I will manage." Mrs. Drummond maneuvered around Lydia and placed her hands on Juliana's belly.

Lydia felt the contraction beginning as Juliana cried out.

"That's it; help her push now, until I tell you to stop. The head is coming now, keep on … now stop."

"Hold on, you are doing marvelously. Breathe deep for another one," Lydia whispered. Juliana probably could not hear her, but still, it felt right to say something encouraging.

"Push again!"

Mrs. Drummond's face turned red and she panted with the effort.

"Keep on, the baby comes…now stop. One or two more and it will be born."

"Did you hear that?" Lydia used the corner of her apron to wipe the sweat from Juliana's brow. "The baby is almost here. Just a little more. Do not give up. Just a little more."

Juliana's eyes fluttered open. "He is born?"

"Not yet—very, very soon. Then we will know if it is a boy. Help us now—"

"Push!"

Juliana's eyes screwed shut and she hunched up, her face flushed bright. Mrs. Drummond continued to push on her belly.

Juliana's belly shifted and Mrs. Harrow yelped at a wet, slippery sound. Juliana fell back into Lydia's arms. Mrs. Drummond rushed to the foot of the bed.

Lydia laid Juliana back onto the bed.

"Is it a boy? Can I see him?" Juliana whispered, eyes barely open.

"I will get the baby." Lydia gulped and tiptoed to the midwife. The room was far too quiet, quiet like it had been with Mama's last two births. Her throat pinched nearly shut.

A tiny boy covered in blood and fluid lay barely moving on a small blanket. Mrs. Harrow rubbed him briskly. He gulped in a little breath, but he did not cry. She rubbed and coaxed and cajoled for several more minutes, but the baby only took tiny, shallow breaths. Mrs. Harrow shook her head and frowned.

Lydia took the tiny infant and carried him to Juliana. "See, it is a boy. Just as you hoped."

Juliana took him and cuddled him to her chest. "He is so tiny, but he is such a good boy. See, he does not even cry. Such a very good boy…"

The baby's eyes fluttered open, and he gazed at his mother.

"His eyes are blue, just like his father's." She stroked the tiny cheek and his eyes closed again. "Such a very good boy." Her eyelids fell, and she breathed slow and deep, asleep.

Lydia stared at them, locking the image in her mind until her vision blurred. She dragged her sleeve over her cheeks and gently took the still infant from Juliana's arms.

"Her bleeding has stopped, that is a very good sign." Mrs. Harrow muttered, pushing up to her feet.

Mrs. Drummond took the baby from Lydia's arms. "It is good she got to hold him. She may not remember though, when she wakes. You will have to tell her."

"Yes, madam," Lydia whispered. How distant the whole scene felt, like she saw it peeking through a window from afar.

"She is going to sleep for some time now. Go and refresh yourself, we will tend to her. I will call you when you can help her once more."

Lydia curtsied on weak knees and stumbled out of the room.

She staggered down the hall to the school room, barely able to make out her surroundings. By instinct alone, she fell into the desk by the window and found a sheet of paper and a pencil. Two, peaceful, sleeping faces took shape beneath her hand. She would do more than tell Juliana about her son. Juliana would see him.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Time passed, lost in the scratching of her pencil. Long grey shadows, extensions of her soul, painted the school room. The rough bite of the pencil on the paper consumed her senses. If only she might stay here forever and never see, or feel, or think again. How would she ever close her eyes and not see Juliana and her baby, their one moment together. If she could just capture it properly on paper, then, only then, might it cease to haunt her.

"That is remarkable."

Lydia jumped and nearly dropped her pencil. "Mrs. Drummond, I…I…"

"Calm down child. I only came to check on you." She laid a hand on Lydia's shoulder. "This has been a difficult day."

"I did not know what else to do, so I came in and started drawing." Lydia shrugged.

Mrs. Drummond raised an eyebrow as if to ask for more.

The words tangled in her throat. How did one put into words so many thoughts and feelings that collided and vied for space within her chest. It was all too much! She managed a weak smile and a noncommittal yes-no shake of her head.

"After the drawings you made while chaperoning Miss Fitzgilbert and her betrothed, I thought you might be drawing now."

Lydia rubbed her tongue against the roof of her mouth and gulped enough air to speak. "I want to give it to Juliana. I do not imagine she will remember holding him very well and that is not something she should ever forget."

Mrs. Drummond lifted her glasses and wiped her eyes. "I think you are quite correct. But, as it is, the picture is too easy to damage. I have an old frame I think would do very well for it. Would it be agreeable to you if I send it off to be properly framed?"

Lydia's jaw dropped and her eyes grew very wide. "I…I do not know what to say. I think she would like that very much. It is a very generous offer, madam. This is just a rough sketch though, I can do a much finer one to be framed."

"I have no doubt you could. Perhaps you might be willing to render one for me. This one though, contains the moment in a visceral way that I do not think you can replicate in a finer effort. It is what Juliana should have, to feel the moment, not just see it."

Was it possible? Mrs. Drummond understood?

"I would be happy to do one for you, if you wish. I did not know you enjoyed art."

"I suppose I sound a bit like Mr. Amberson, do I not?" She laughed and pulled a stool near. "I am not an artist myself, but he has taught me to see things a little of the way he does, though only a little. He is apt to go on and on in ways that utterly baffle me."

"He has taught me a great deal. I am very grateful to him."

"I can see that he has. I do not believe that he has had a pupil like you before."

"I am sure he has had many much better, I am not half the musician Miss Fitzgilbert and Miss Greenville are."

"That may be true, but they do not understand the language of art the way that you do." Mrs. Drummond steepled her hands and tapped them to her lips.

"I did not understand it myself until he explained it."

Had he any idea of what he had done for her? Perhaps she should tell him, but there were no words to express it.

"But clearly it is natural to you. Miss Honeywell has taught many girls to draw and paint, but I have never seen one take to it as you have, craving it like the very air she breathes."

Mrs. Drummond really did understand.

"I had no idea I would like it so well. I am so glad I learned. I do not know what I would do without it now. It makes me feel so … I do not know how to explain it. I am not lost anymore … and I like that. I like who I am now. I never thought about it before, but I am not a stupid, silly, shatter-brained creature here. I have something I can do well, and even friends to share it with. It is all so different."

"I can see that." Mrs. Drummond chewed her knuckle. "I do not think you are the same girl who came to me some months ago, and I mean that as a compliment."

Lydia stammered something that sounded vaguely like 'Thank you.' Mrs. Drummond had just complimented her? What a very, very strange day indeed.

"You were a great help with Juliana today, one we desperately needed. Mrs. Harrow and I are grateful for your help."

"I am glad you did not think me out of line for it."

Mrs. Drummond stared at her in the most peculiar, uncomfortable way. Lydia rolled her pencil between her palms.

"I have made a decision, Miss Bennet."

Lydia gulped. "Excuse me, madam?"

"Give me your cap."

"My cap? I do not understand."

"When you came, I told you that all girls here wear them until they earn the privilege to remove it." Mrs. Drummond gently slipped the mobcap off. "Today, I believe you have done that. Ordinarily I would do this with greater fanfare, over dinner, but in light of all that has transpired today, I am not sure that would be appropriate."

Cool air rushed over the top of her head. She shivered. For months now, she had accustomed herself to the cap. How strange—and a little frightening—to be without it.

"Are you certain? I do not think I did that much."

"And that confirms to me exactly why it is the right time." Mrs. Drummond rose. "I am pleased Miss Bennet, and I trust you will not disappoint me."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Several hours later, commotion at the front door drew Lydia from the school room. The front hall filled with girls, followed by Miss Thornton and Miss Honeywell and the vicar and his wife. The housekeeper led the Weatherbys to Mrs. Drummond's office and the girls milled about downstairs as though uncertain of where they belonged.

Lydia lingered at the top of the stairs as they whispered among themselves. Company, well, certain company, would be welcome. The better part of her afternoon had been spent in the silence of her own head. Not the place she preferred to be alone right now.

Miss Fitzgilbert saw her and swept up the stairs. "What news of Juliana?" She clung to the banister, face pale, braced for the worst.

"She lives, but the baby…" Lydia shrugged and swallowed hard. She blinked rapidly. "The baby came quickly, but her fits continued throughout. The midwife is with her still and fears her recovery may be a long and difficult one."

"And you? I could not believe you stayed, that Mrs. Drummond allowed you to stay. You are so very brave. Was it very awful?" She touched Lydia's arm.

Lydia bit her lip and studied the floorboards. "No more so than my mother's last lying-in, well not much worse. It is not so terrible when you have attended one before."

"But the blood…"

"That is not very pleasant, but…it was his face…" Her throat closed and chest pinched so tight she could hardly breathe. She clutched Miss Fitzgilbert's hand and pulled her into the school room.

A second drawing, one for Mrs. Drummond lay on the desk by the window, lit by the final rays of afternoon sun. What could she say about it? She pointed to it. Perhaps Miss Fitzgilbert would understand.

Miss Fitzgilbert gasped and picked it up. Tears flowed down her cheeks. "This is the most amazing … I have never seen a baby so small. They both look … so peaceful." She returned it to the desk and embraced Lydia.

They wept into each other's shoulders, the final pools of emotion wrung from Lydia's soul.

Handkerchiefs proved insufficient and aprons were finally employed to blot their cheeks. At least she could breathe again. The crushing weight had eased. What was it Mary used to say about a burden shared?

"Where is your cap?" Miss Fitzgilbert asked.

"Mrs. Drummond took it." Lydia touched her hair. "It feels very strange to be without it."

"I remember when she took mine. I felt almost naked without it." Miss Fitzgilbert sniffled. "Shall I call you Miss Bennet now?"

"No, I am not sure I know how to answer to it anymore. I think I would look over my shoulder for one of my sisters if you did."

Miss Fitzgilbert giggled. "Then will you call me Anabelle? I should very much like to have a friend who would call me so."

Call Miss Fitzgilbert by her Christian name? Did she consider Lydia such a friend? At times Lydia had hoped so, but dared not believe it.

"I hardly know what to say."

"Just say yes. Please. No one else does, and it would be nice to have a particular friend here, even for the short time I have left."

"I do not think it would be proper in company."

"Then only when it is the two of us?"

"I am honored, thank you, Anabelle." How warm and fuzzy it felt, just speaking her friend's name.

"I expect that you will need another place to sleep while Juliana recovers. Would you share my room with me?"

Lydia gasped and covered her mouth. "I had not considered … I thought I would stay with her to tend her."

"I am sure there will be ample opportunity for many of us to take turns keeping watch with her. You must also have a place to rest yourself, though."

"Are you certain you wish my company? I thought having a room alone a privilege."

"It is, but with the wedding coming in just six weeks, I am so nervous. I find myself very much in want of company."

Miss Fitzgilbert's room was small, but she would be far better society than Joan and Amelia.

"Sharing with you would make it far easier for me to do your hair for you when Sir Anthony calls. Thank you. If Mrs. Drummond approves, I should like it very much."

Anabelle squeezed her hand. "I am sure she will. We ought to go back downstairs though. I am not the only one hungry for news of Juliana."

"I suppose so." But there would be so many questions. Questions she was not prepared to think about, much less talk about. She squeezed her eyes shut against the images of blood and babies who did not cry. Perhaps the teachers would stay her from talking about the worst of it. Pray that it would be so.

They made it only halfway down the stairs before Miss Thornton stopped them. Below, Miss Honeywell quieted the girls into an audience of demanding, anxious eyes.

Lydia stared back at them, words entirely escaping her. What did one say when there were so many staring? She gulped and her breath came short.

"Does Juliana live?" Miss Thornton asked.

Bless her, a question she could answer!

"Yes."

Miss Thornton followed with several more questions, all brief and comfortably answered. Though curious expressions remained, she did not persist in her interrogation. Blessed, merciful woman!

Mrs. Drummond appeared at the back of the group. "Pray, your attention, girls. Cook has a cold meal for us in the dining room. Come now. The vicar and his wife shall be joining us."

Mrs. Drummond ushered the whispering, shuffling herd along. Anabelle and Lydia brought up the rear, Lydia's knees nearly too weak to traverse the entire distance to the dining room.

Lydia parted company with Anabelle and took her usual seat with Joan and Amelia. The accustomed dinner ritual should have felt familiar and comforting, but Juliana's absence somehow filled the room with a cold emptiness bigger than her vacant chair.

Plates of cold meat, cheese, bread and jam, pickles and a platter of meat pasties that Cook had made the day before graced the table. Mama would deem it a shameful meal to serve guests, but after all that had transpired that day, anything more would have felt an insult to Juliana's suffering.

The Weatherbys did not seem taken aback by it at all. He set to serving his wife and Mrs. Drummond from the nearest platters, just as a proper gentleman would do, mindless of the simplicity of the food. Mrs. Weatherby, with the round, rosy cheeks and perpetual pleasant expression commented softly on the pleasantness of the cheese and flavor of the jam. Though her continuous good nature could be utterly grating at times, tonight it provided a welcome balm to Lydia's ragged nerves.

"I am surprised you would continue to associate with the likes of us," Amelia whispered and shoved a plate of cheese toward her.

Lydia shook her head. "What are you talking about?"

Joan tugged the lace of her own mob cap. "I supposed we should be calling you Miss Bennet now."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "I would not answer to it if you did."

"You say that now, but I am sure you will enjoy lording over us soon enough," Amelia muttered. "I want to know what did you do to get missus to—"

"Girls," Mrs. Drummond rose and straightened her fichu.

The hum of whispered conversations and shuffling bodies ceased, and silence embraced them.

"This has been a very difficult day among us, and I know you have many questions. I will make arrangements to speak privately to any of you who wish to discuss the situation and endeavor to provide you all the answers I can. In the meantime, we must care for Juliana as she recovers from her travail."

"How long will her recovery be?" Anabelle asked.

"We cannot know. Unfortunately, Mrs. Harrow is concerned that she is already showing signs of child-bed fever."

A collective gasp filled the room. Even Mrs. Weatherby's features lost a little of their bloom.

"Her condition is serious, but not without hope. It is possible to recover from even that affliction."

"My mother did, after her last confinement," Lydia said, more to herself than anyone else. "I should like to sit with her if I may."

Mrs. Drummond stared at her, the corner of her lips lifting just a mite. "Thank you, both for your encouragement and your willingness to offer your aid."

Amelia snorted softly. "So that is how you did it."

Lydia turned her face away and looked at Anabelle who pressed her lips and shook her head.

"You anticipated my next remarks, Miss Bennet," Mrs. Drummond emphasized her name just enough to make Lydia squirm. "Juliana will require much assistance in the coming days and any of you who wish to offer support would be quite welcome. Miss Thornton, Miss Honeywell and I will, of course, be active in attending her."

"I should like to help," Anabelle glanced at Miss Long.

"And I too." Miss Long nodded vigorously.

Amelia leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I will sit with her too."

"And me," Joan said.

Miss Greenville scowled from across the table. She glanced at Ruth and Stephanie beside her. They both swallowed hard and twitched their heads in agreement. "The three of us would be pleased to assist as well."

"Excellent, that will be more than enough help. So much in fact that not all of you will be needed to sit in the sickroom. Ruth," Mrs. Drummond turned to face her, "I am well aware of your squeamishness. I appreciate your willingness to endure what is uncomfortable to you for the sake of your friend. But since we have more than we strictly need in the sick room, I would have you take charge of the extra laundry. There will be a great deal of linens to wash and that chore is no less important than that of sitting with Juliana. Joan and Amelia may assist you with the task."

"Thank you, Mrs. Drummond," Ruth exhaled heavily and smiled, color returning to her face.

It had been a brave thing for her to volunteer. She nearly swooned at the sight of blood from a needle-pricked finger. Tending the sick room was certainly beyond her purview.

Amelia grumbled under her breath. "Had I known we were to slave at execution day, I would never have said anything."

"What is that, Amelia?" Mrs. Drummond cleared her throat. "Do you object to your assignment?"

"I had no idea…ah…housework would be involved."

"Is that to say you are unwilling?"

"I … I …"

"I am certain Ruth does not need grudging assistance. You may be excused from the task. Joan, I suppose the same sentiment applies to you?"

Joan looked from Amelia to Mrs. Drummond, shifting uneasily in her seat. "Ah, no, I am willing to help Ruth."

"Very well then. Amelia and the rest of you, your increased assistance in the household will be invaluable. Chores will we redistributed accordingly. Assignments will be explained tomorrow morning." Mrs. Drummond sat down and returned to her dinner.

Amelia elbowed Lydia. "You could have warned me she was looking for laundresses."

Lydia pulled back. "I had no idea. Why do you think I would know?"

"Well, you are her new favorite."

"I am no such thing."

"I expect you think you will come to share our room and order us about." Joan sniffed.

"No, I do not."

"At least you are correct about that," Amelia said.

"I will not ask to share your room. I know you do not want my company." Lydia took a pasty from the platter and handed it to Joan.

Joan served herself and passed the platter on. "We never said that. Do not be that way. Of course, you will stay with us. It will be great fun."

"No, I shall not impose on you. You have complained so many times that your room is not large enough for two, much less three. Miss Fitzgilbert has a room to herself, I shall share with her."

"Let her be," Amelia sneered. "Miss Bennet is far too good for us now."

Joan shrugged and attended to her dinner.

Lydia struggled to chew and swallow, her throat tight and dry. Perhaps she should…

Anabelle smiled at her from across the table.

Lydia nodded. No, Anabelle was much better company, even if her room was small.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20 **

Mrs. Drummond dismissed them from dinner to the parlor, but the usual gay rush to the parlor gave way to a somber parade from the dining room. A few smiled, but those pleasing expressions could not lift the cloud of sobriety that permeated the company.

Lydia lingered behind the group, hands limp at her sides. The parlor scarcely sounded inviting right now. Mr. Amberson had not attended dinner. His absence meant there would be little hope of music tonight to help lighten their spirits. Games hardly seemed appealing.

Was this what Lizzy felt when forced to keep company in Lady Catherine's drawing room? No wonder she would be ill-tempered those afternoons as she prepared to go to Rosings. Who knew keeping company could be so very taxing?

Lydia leaned against the banister, letting the others pass by. Anabelle and Miss Long both stopped to encourage her to join them, but she silently declined. Watching through the parlor door was entirely sufficient for now.

Ruth and Stephanie brought out cards and suggested a game of commerce. While it was not a favorite, it did allow for all the girls to play together. Somehow that seemed entirely appropriate, even though Amelia grumbled that she did not like the game very well at all.

"Do you not wish to play with the others?" a soft voice asked from behind her shoulder.

Mrs. Weatherby stood in the shadow of the staircase. She was not smiling, not with her mouth. But everything else about her seemed to radiate warmth. Somehow that made her presence less trying than any of the others would have been.

"Thank you, no. I do not think I could follow the play right now." Lydia shrugged and avoided eye contact. Just because Mrs. Weatherby was less wearisome than the others did not mean Lydia actively welcomed the intrusion.

"I have never been much of a card player myself, especially when I have other things weighing upon me. Mrs. Drummond told us of what you did this afternoon. It was very brave of you."

"Perhaps if it were the first time, I might be called brave. But…"

"She said you sat with your own mother at such a time. It must have been difficult."

Why would Mrs. Drummond tell her that?

"I never thought much about the matter." Pray let Mrs. Weatherby cease this disagreeable conversion.

"Perhaps you should give it some thought."

Lydia turned and met her eye. "Why? I do not understand what dwelling on such things achieves. Why linger upon the sad and difficult?" Her eyes and throat burned.

Had Mrs. Weatherby any idea of how many things had been sad and difficult in Lydia's life? If she took opportunity to dwell upon them, the melancholy would overwhelm everything, perhaps even her will to live. No it was far too much to consider. Best look only at today, and the ones to come, the ones she could impact, the ones that had not already been tainted.

"A fair question to ask, child, and one I am willing to answer. It is because during those times, we are allowed a glimpse at ourselves. Those are the moments when our true character is exposed."

"I am not certain that is something I wish to look at. I have been told enough it is at least very silly if not very bad."

"Mrs. Drummond does not think so. I believe she showed you her faith in you very clearly this afternoon." Mrs. Weatherby cocked her head and lifted an eyebrow.

Lydia touched her hair. "I do not know what to make of it."

"Perhaps it would be time well spent for you to extend some effort to consider it."

"Why?" Would this meddlesome, intrusive woman never leave her alone?

Mrs. Weatherby chuckled.

How dare she laugh!

She touched Lydia's shoulder. "I am not amused at your discomfort, dear. I am sorry you would have cause to feel that way."

"Why else would you laugh then?" Lydia tossed her head. The gesture probably looked defiant, but she had no defiance left in her, not tonight. The habit was too ingrained to resist.

"For joy."

The woman was daft. That could be the only explanation. "I do not understand."

"We have known Mrs. Drummond for quite some time and followed the progress of many of her charges. Girls do not leave her school unchanged. Some improve, others become more entrenched in their ways."

Lydia wrapped her arms around her waist. It was the best way to brace for an onslaught of criticism. Funny, Lizzy was apt to do the same thing; she did it a great deal.

"The look in your eyes says that you wonder which is the case for you."

Lydia shrugged. "I am sure you will let me know."

What an impertinent comment. If nothing else earned her censure, that surely would.

Mrs. Weatherby's smile did not fade, nor did she even blink. "You do not need me to tell you. All the signs are around you. You just need to look at them and believe in what you are seeing. A little self-examination is often called for when one comes to milestones in the road."

"And this," Lydia played with a curl near her ear, "you think it is a milestone?"

"What you think of it is more important."

Would she not stop talking in questions and riddles? Did she take pleasure in being so vague and irritating?

"Ah, Mrs. Weatherby," the vicar strolled in, Mrs. Drummond at his side. "I think it is time for us to take our leave. Soon the night will be too dark for us to walk home."

"I am sure you are right, sir. It would not do to overstay our welcome." Mrs. Weatherby flashed a knowing glance at Lydia and took his arm.

"You could hardly overstay your welcome with us." Mrs. Drummond said.

"Not at all. I am honored by your invitation. We are always pleased to spend time with you and your charges." Mr. Weatherby bowed his head and Mrs. Drummond saw them out.

At last, a little peace and solitude. Her nerves were raw enough without the helpful company of Mrs. Weatherby.

Lydia settled back against the banister and observed the game in the parlor. Ruth and Lucy appear to be in possession of very good hands. Odd, in all this time here, she had very little cause to talk to quiet, timid Lucy who hung back in the shadows and said little. How could such a mousy thing have gotten herself into enough trouble to be sent away?

"You should join the rest of the girls."

Lydia jumped. How had Mrs. Drummond snuck up on her?

"You really ought to have a little amusement today."

"Pray, madam, no…" Lydia glanced from Mrs. Drummond to the parlor and back again.

"Are you well, child?" She pressed her hand to Lydia's forehead.

Mama had often done the same thing when she thought Lydia's behavior odd. Why did mothers always think one ill when they did not understand one's feelings?

"I am well enough, thank you. I am only too weary for games tonight."

Mrs. Drummond nodded and pressed her eyes with forefinger and thumb. "We all have reason to be weary tonight. Why not go to bed?"

"I do not think I can sleep now. May I sit with Juliana?"

"I had thought to go to her myself."

"Perhaps you should sleep for a bit."

Mrs. Drummond studied her carefully, as though she did not know to whom she was speaking.

Lydia shrugged. "I would rather stare at Juliana than at the ceiling wishing for sleep."

"I appreciate your willingness; I just do not understand it. I do not mean to pry child, but why are you so sanguine about keeping a nighttime vigil?"

Lydia dropped her gaze and studied the dust on the stairs. She might not mean to pry, but that was exactly what she was doing.

"You are no stranger to this either?"

"No, madam. I had a younger brother who fell very ill. I think it was typhus, but I do not remember clearly. We all kept vigil with him, but to no avail."

"I see. Yet you are willing to do so now."

Lydia shrugged again. Would the questions not cease tonight? Pray let her not demand an answer!

"Very well. Tell Mrs. Harrow I sent you. She will tell you what to do. I will take your place in a few hours."

Lydia curtsied and climbed the stairs. Did Mrs. Drummond have to watch her so? She turned down the hallway and paused, safe from observation. Leaning against the wall, she let her head fall back against the faded blue paint. The darkness of the hall enveloped her, spoke to her of another dark corridor.

Little Thomas's illness was something they never spoke of. Mama never moved past the grief. She still wore a ring with his hair on her small finger. Papa only grew angry at the mention of his only son, so they avoided the topic assiduously. Nothing they did alleviated her little brother's sufferings and in just a few days, he was lost. Perhaps, Juliana's fate would be better.

The corridor still smelled vaguely of blood. She swallowed hard. Hopefully Amelia would get to washing the soiled linens tomorrow. Even more promising, the windows in the rest of the house might be opened to let the breeze carry away the odor. If not, Mrs. Drummond might not find her attitude nearly so impressive on the morrow.

Lydia peeked into her room. Hot and stuffy, a low fire glowed in the fireplace, casting an eerie orange-red light over everything it touched. Nothing looked pleasing touched by that hue. She slipped inside. Mrs. Harrow slumped like a half-used sack of flour in a chair near Juliana's bedside. She stirred and turned toward Lydia.

"Mrs. Drummond sent me."

Mrs. Harrow nodded and pushed up from the chair as though she weighed twice as much as she had when she sat down. She shuffled to Lydia and beckoned her into the hall.

"Mrs. Drummond said you would instruct me in her care."

Mrs. Harrow blew out a heavy breath. "She finally sleeps, but I do not expect it to last long. The fever has her in its grips. If she had a cold fit, you must abate its violence with warm diluting drinks. I have a kettle near the fire with wine and whey should she need it. There are also bricks heating on the hearth if they are needed to warm her extremities. Use the tongs and wrap them in the towels near the hearth before you place them near her."

"I will not allow her to get burnt."

"Keep the basin near her in case she vomits. You do not have to change the linens again. I fear the housekeeper may not have much left that is still clean."

Lydia fought not to smile. Amelia would have a full day on the morrow.

"In the water jar you will find a saline draught with a touch of laudanum. Give her a tumbler of that if she purges. Too much purging will weaken her, and she needs all her strength to recover."

Lydia nodded.

"If she becomes too hot, or her belly pains her, there is a pail of vinegar water, beside the chair. Wet cloths with that and place them on her belly and limbs. Dampen the cloths as they become hot and dry. Can you do all this?"

"Yes, madam. I will."

"Very well. I will be just down the hall, in Miss Long's room should you need me." Mrs. Harrow shambled away. How much she had aged in just these few hours.

A low moan filtered through the door. Juliana needed her. Lydia slipped inside.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Lydia replaced the cooling cloth on Juliana's forehead and dabbed the sweat from her cheeks and neck. The little beads glistened in the firelight, tiny gems marking a lady's distress.

At least Juliana slept easier for the moment. The cold fit seemed like it would never pass. But it had, and the bricks were once again heating by the fire. Her fever was abating, just a little. The reprieve would not last very long. Still, it should be relished whilst it lasted.

Lydia dipped a handkerchief in the vinegar water and scoured the sweat from her face and neck. Dirty stains streaked across its length and it smelled more of sweat than vinegar now. Why must a sickroom be kept so hot and stuffy? She threw it into the corner pile of used linens and stretched.

Exhausted, beyond exhausted. How was one to describe a tiredness that leached the strength from one's bones? Perhaps one day she would draw it, but who would want to see such a thing?

The door edged open and Mrs. Drummond slipped in. Cool air that rushed in behind her. She looked a little better for a few hours' sleep, but deep creases still shadowed her face and a weariness beyond the mere physical washed over her being, dull, grey and worn.

"You have got her to sleep?" Mrs. Drummond touched Juliana's forehead with the back of her hand.

"Only just, and with the help of Mrs. Harrow's saline and laudanum draught."

Mrs. Drummond frown deepened. "I do not much like the use of laudanum in this house. Do not allow it to be known there is any within these walls."

"Someone here?"

"Yes, and it would not do to bring them into temptation."

Who? No, she could not ask and Mrs. Drummond surely would not tell her if she did.

Whose story did she not know? She rubbed her eyes. Lucy was the only one she had heard nothing of. Could that be? Well in any case, she would guard her tongue especially carefully around Lucy. Ames might have survived drinking too much laudanum, but Lydia was no Lizzy and she had not her father here to advise treatment in any case. A shudder coursed down her back.

"My father detests the stuff and decries all but a few uses of it."

"I am glad to hear you have no easy opinion of it." Mrs. Drummond straightened Juliana's blanket. "Go rest. You may use the settee in my office. Tomorrow we shall make arrangements for a room for you."

"Annabelle, that is Miss Fitzgilbert, asked me to stay with her."

"I had though you would prefer Joan and Amelia's room."

Lydia shook her head sharply. "No, madam, if you please…"

"You say Miss Fitzgilbert asked you?"

"Yes, madam."

Mrs. Drummond rubbed her eyes with thumb and forefinger. "Very well."

"Thank you." Lydia tiptoed to the door, but paused before opening it. "May I…may I sit outside in the garden on the bench near the door? I cannot sleep now, not after being so stifled in this heat. I promise to be very quiet and go nowhere else. I…I need some fresh air. This room is so hot and stuffy."

Mrs. Drummond sighed. "You realize—"

"I know it very improper. I am sorry. Perhaps I might just open a window, then?"

"The garden is walled and gated and the moon is full. Stay to the bench near the door as you said. Do not stay out long. I understand the need for fresh air."

Lydia curtsied. "Thank you madam. Shall I come back afterwards?"

"No, Miss Honeywell will sit with her next." She patted Juliana's hand. "We are still hoping for a good outcome. It is still possible."

"I know it is. Juliana is so strong, more than any one of us realizes. She is strong."

"Yes, she is…yes she is."

Lydia slipped out the door and shut it softly behind her.

Moonlight through the hall window washed the corridor in cold, otherworldly light. Unladylike snores filtering through closed doors might be the muffled roars of some unnamed creature of darkness.

She rubbed away cold sharp prickles dancing up her arms. Silly, foolish girl. There were no such things and she must not allow ridiculous fears to take hold. No, there were far too many real, tangible things to be afraid of.

She sat on the top step. It creaked uncertainly beneath her, confused as it was called into service as a seat rather than a stair.

Back at home…in Papa's house…was that even her home anymore?... she had kept those fears at bay with gaiety and fun and flirtations. Without those well-placed defenses, those fears seemed close enough to touch. What would, what could hold them at bay? Would she ever feel safe again?

A moan, Juliana's, wafted down the hall. Mrs. Drummond's soothing murmurs followed.

Lydia rose. Best she go downstairs now lest she find herself back in the sick room.

Darkness enveloped the stairway and the short hall to the back door. Good that she knew the way so well or she might have turned away short of her goal.

A tiny sliver of moonlight poured in beside the back door. Who had left it open? Mrs. Drummond would be very cross to discover it open. She slipped outside and latched the door behind her.

How cool and wonderful the night air! Smooth and silky, caressing her sweat-ravaged limbs with a soothing silver balm. Night creatures chirruped and twittered, far less frightening than the sounds within.

The alms house widows believed it a very dangerous thing to be out in the night and perhaps they were generally correct, but in this moment there was nothing her soul needed more than this respite from the confines of the house.

What? Was that a groan?

That was not a normal night sound and that shadow near the bench—

"Mr. Amberson?"

"Miss Bennet?" He jumped to his feet. His lanky limbs cast exaggerated shadows along the garden path. How very much taller than usual he seemed. "You should not be out."

"Mrs. Drummond gave me permission. She just took my place with Juliana."

"I am astonished. Does she not think it improper?"

"What are you doing out here?" She peered up at him. Though deep shadows covered his face, tell-tale swollen eyes and glistening cheeks could not be hidden. She stretched to brush his cheek with fingertips. "What is wrong?"

What did it take to make a man cry? Papa…the only time he had ever shed tears was at little Thomas' death. Nothing else so moved him before or since.

Mr. Amberson grasped her wrist and pressed her palm to his cheek. Eyes closed, he leaned into her hand, sighing. The lines around his eyes softened.

"My heart is heavy and my soul, grieved, and only the night can contain it."

"Do you wish to speak of it?" She glanced over her shoulder. "We might sit…"

"I should not unburden myself upon you so…but I fear if I try to contain it any further I might shatter with the effort." He took her hand and led her to the bench. She perched upon it, but he hunkered tailor-style on the ground before her.

"You have listened to my griefs and grievances often enough. Tell me what troubles you." She bit her lip.

He scrubbed his face with his hands. "You will think ill of me for knowing."

"And you have not had the opportunity to think ill of me? How much have I told you? I should think that all the more reason for you to find me trustworthy. Besides, I cannot imagine what you could tell me that would make me think ill of you."

"You have great faith in me."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps I am far more difficult to shock than a proper young lady ought to be." She chuckled, but it had a raw edge.

"I helped bury him today."

"Who?"

"The baby. The midwife christened him, wrapped him in a sheet and gave him to me. I took him to the vicar, and we buried him in the churchyard near some climbing roses. No marker, no mourners." He raked his hair into an unruly mass. "They say the loss of a baby or even a child is a negligible loss. A father, a husband, that is a life worth mourning."

"It sounds as though you do not agree."

"A father, has he not already given back into the society of man? Indeed, at an advanced age, he has given most of what he would have to give, perhaps even all. Is it wrong to mourn instead for the life that was never lived at all? The potential lost to us forever?"

Her chin quivered and she swallowed hard. Papa had gone alone to bury Thomas. "I suppose you are correct. But is it not worthwhile to consider, the babe spent the whole of his life staring into the eyes of one who loved him more deeply than you and I might even understand. Surely, there must be something of great beauty in such a life."

He grabbed her hands and pressed his forehead to them, great, heaving sobs wracking his bony shoulders.

Wispy clouds, carried on a thin, chill breeze obscured the book and draped them with darkness. She squeezed his hands hard, but the storm seized him harder still.

Another breeze whisked the clouds aside and a single moonbeam brightened his face. "I pray…I pray…"

"Pray what?"

"I pray my son might have lived the life you described."

"Your son?" Her cheeks flushed cold and her fingers numbed. She tried to pull them away, but he held her fast.

"My son, Miss Bennet." He lifted his head and stared into her eyes, so ragged, so exposed, she forced herself not to turn away.

Silence, punctuated with gasping breaths, filled the air between them, so heavy, so uncertain, she longed to dash back into the house.

"Do you not wonder why a man of my talent is merely a teacher at a school for sullied girls?"

She winced. "I have."

"There is good reason, I assure you. You will find my sins are no different to your own. I was a favorite among society in Derby. My skill gave me favor among those above me, and I grew to think far too well of myself. I was a favorite partner among young ladies at balls and assemblies. Though the proper mamas and papas frowned upon their daughters keeping company with a musician, there was something exhilarating in flaunting their restrictions and seeing whatever girls I chose."

Lydia held her breath.

"In time, one of them fell with child. I will never forget the moment she told me."

"What…what did you do?" Pray, let him not be as Wickham.

"I am not proud of my first inclinations. I was angry. I spoke harshly to her, but in truth, it was me I was angry at. It was true, she gave her virtue easily enough, but it was I who had asked, nay cajoled, it from her."

"What did you do?"

"I offered her marriage, but her father was a proud, wealthy man and wanted a titled family for her. I had some connections and thought I might be able to secure a knighthood. Not as good as a baronet, to be sure, but respectable enough. He seemed to embrace the notion. So I left to London to make what efforts I could to that end." He pushed to his feet and walked into a distant shaft of moonlight.

She followed a few steps behind.

"While I was gone, he sent her away to distant relations. He never intended to accept my offer, especially since I failed to secure the knighthood."

"Do you know what became of her?"

"I tried to find her, but my efforts led me to be run out of town by the magistrate."

She swallowed back the lump in her throat. What had he done? "That is why you are here?"

"Indeed, although it was nearly a year between leaving Derby and arriving to a sufficient degree of penance that my aunt would accept me at her establishment. Do not fear. I am much reformed." He dragged the back of his fist across his mouth. "But do not suppose I gave up easily. I did not. It was only six months ago, after learning of her wedding to the son of a baronet, that I relinquished all hope of her. I learned through clandestine communication with her abigail that she bore my son, but he survived only three days after birth. I pray he was loved even half so well as you describe."

"Even had you been there, the power of life and death is not in our hands."

"I know. I would never have known if he lived or died save for a servant who liked my coin better than the promise of silence made to her mistress. What disturbs me most is that I may have had a son, a child in the world, and never known. Natural child he may have been, but many a father has helped his natural child, has he not? To have that chance taken from me, I find it difficult to forgive."

"I am sure her father forbade her from any communications with you."

"As I am sure he would have forbidden the liberties I took with her. Yet, she was ready to cast aside her father's will when it was pleasing to her. I offered for her. I did not forsake her as she did me." He turned away and strode several steps into the darkness.

She swallowed hard. _Enjoy your damaged goods. Whilst I tell everyone of the fine romp I had with your sister. _Wickham's words still haunted her dreams.

She tiptoed into the darkness and laid her hand on his arm. "I know what it is to be forsaken by the one who you hoped loved you."

He whirled and caught her shoulders, his eyes flashing and wild. "Here we are, found among the ranks of the forsaken. A place I had never thought to be. Nor one I thought to find one such as you."

"Such as I?"

"You are a rare treasure, Miss Bennet. Such a heart, such a soul. I have met no one else who sees the world as I hear it. So sensitive, so perceptive." His hand strayed to a loose curl by her ear. He wound it around his fingers and gently pulled it through. "It seems my aunt has finally begun to appreciate you even as I do."

"You sir?"

"I have restrained myself for both our sakes, but tonight, grief has made me reckless, and I cannot bear the thought of losing you before we have even begun."

"Begun?"

"Begun, Miss Bennet." He caressed her cheek. "Or have I misunderstood the look in your eye and the tremor in your voice? For many weeks now, I have considered you as more than my student and hoped…wished, even dreamed that you might feel the same."

"Sir, I…"

"Then I have been mistaken." He released her shoulders and turned aside.

"Wait, no."

He stopped.

"I have been most pleased with your company, sir."

"Only pleased?" He stepped closer.

"I must not, I cannot, I should not consider anything more. I am here for improvement." That was the right answer, was it not?

"My aunt believes you have improved." He ran her curl through his fingers again.

"Would she approve? Or my…my brother Darcy approve?"

"The question now is do you approve?" He leaned close, into a moonbeam that bathed his profile in a silver-blue glow.

How strong and intense he was. Her heart surged and longed for closeness. But could she speak it? Could she tell him? What if she did not? Her head swam at the thought…he might leave and never return!

"I do, but what of them?"

"I do not care. Only your opinion matters." His palm cupped her cheek, running his calloused thumb along the crest of her cheek. He smoothed her eyebrow, and she closed her eyes. A feather-like touch glided over her eyelid, and he tipped her face up.

Warm, soft lips met hers, igniting an effusion of warmth that spread from her heart, filling her chest and all the way to her fingertips. Softly, gently, reverently, giving, not taking, offering her every opportunity to pull away, but she could not. The raw edge of hunger and lust present with Wickham was missing. Instead his longing rang as passionate and intense as his music.

She leaned into his kiss, though she should not. But this, just this and only this, she could not deny him.

He pulled away and whispered. "No one else's opinion matters." He sighed, a sound of hope. "I must leave you, lest temptations visit this garden, and it is too much to bear." He caressed her cheek and faded away into the darkness.

Emptiness swirled about her, cold and sharp. What did this mean? What would she do? Surely, he would not keep away from her for too long—would he?

She turned back toward the house. Something moved in one of the windows above. Mrs. Drummond truly needed a cat to keep down the mice in the house. Juliana loved cats—perhaps Mrs. Drummond might be willing to take in one of the farmer's barn cat's kittens to cheer Juliana and hunt mice. Yes, she would speak to Mrs. Drummond in the morning—after she spent the sleepless hours until dawn pondering cats and mice and Mr. Amberson.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

When sleep finally came, it embraced her like a lost love, cradling her for far longer than it had any right to hold her. Foggy memories intruded, tempted her away: someone helping her upstairs to Annabelle's room, of tea trays with broth and gruel, and sweet wine with water. They swirled in the back of her mind, elusive and dream-like until sleep claimed her again.

Lydia opened her eyes. The sun hung half way up the sky. Rays of warm brightness streamed onto her face, demanding, pleading. She blinked and rubbed sandy eyes. How long had she slept? She hurried to dress. How and when had she undressed? Would Mrs. Drummond scold her terribly for being so long abed?

An empty, soundless corridor greeted her. What had become of all the household noises that should have filled it? She darted down the hall and paused at Juliana's door. She pressed her ear to the cool wood, but heard nothing. Was anyone even there?

She held her breath and pressed the door open. Mrs. Drummond waved her in. Thank heavens, Juliana snored softly beside her! She exhaled heavily, her vision wavering at the edges.

"I am glad to see you looking so well rested now. We were beginning to worry for your health." Mrs. Drummond rose and walked toward her.

"How long have I been sleeping?"

"A day and a night now, but you seem all the better for it."

"How is Juliana?" Lydia glanced at the bed.

"Mrs. Harrow had pronounced the signs encouraging. Juliana's fever continues, but she has suffered no more fits. She takes a little broth from time to time, though most of her time is spent sleeping. It is far too soon to tell, still we are hopeful." She smiled a small, tense, tired smile.

Miss Thornton peeked in and Mrs. Drummond beckoned her to them.

"Shall I sit with her now? Miss Honeywell is preparing the girls for a visit to the workhouse."

Mrs. Drummond nodded. "Very good. I shall speak to her before they leave. Come, Miss Bennet. You should break your fast with some proper food."

Lydia's stomach rumbled as she followed Mrs. Drummond out. They paused halfway down the corridor.

"Have your breakfast, but do not to go out with the rest of the girls. Miss Fitzgilbert is expecting a call from Sir Anthony this morning and requires you as chaperone."

Lydia's cheeks flushed hot. Though it was not her company Sir Anthony sought, her belly churned at the thought of facing a caller. "I…I am hardly fit to be seen, madam. I do not wish to be an embarrassment to her."

Mrs. Drummond tucked a stray curl behind Lydia's ear. "I know you are exhausted, but we are very much at the mercy of his leisure. We cannot refuse him."

"I understand, madam." Lydia curtsied.

Poor Annabelle! She was tending Juliana as well. How was she faring?

Mrs. Drummond pursed her lips and sighed. "Go back to your room and prepare for the call. You should be presentable, for Miss Fitzgilbert's sake. I shall have a tray sent to your room."

"To my room? But—"

"Yes, I am well aware of my own rules, Miss Bennet. Sometimes exceptions must be made." She chuckled and continued downstairs.

Lydia trudged to Miss Fitzgilbert's room. Where were her proper day dresses? There might have been one hanging beside her morning gown. She blinked and screwed her eyes shut. How many of her things had been in Annabell's room?

Several of her gowns hung in the closet. Her hair brush lay on the dressing table, and the dresser contained still more of her things. Someone, someone who knew what she would most want, must have brought them whilst she slept. How much had she missed?

"Lydia!" Annabelle shouldered the door open, tea tray in her hands. She deposited the tray on the small table near the window and rushed to Lydia. "Mrs. Drummond asked me to bring a tray up for Miss Thornton." She giggled and winked. "Selfish creature that I am, I am so glad you are awake now. Mrs. Drummond said you knew of Sir Anthony's visit today. Here let me help you dress."

"Thank you. I…I did not expect I would need to be presentable so soon."

"I am sorry. I know it is a great deal to ask, when you are only barely back to rights yourself. I have no one else to sit with me, especially now."

"Now?" Lydia looked over her shoulder at Annabelle fastening her buttons.

"You missed quite a to-do yesterday. Sit down and let me do your hair. It looks so very pretty without your cap." Annabelle picked up Lydia's hairbrush from the dressing table.

"I have nearly forgotten how to fix it myself. What happened yesterday?"

"You can imagine, the whole house is quite at sixes and sevens over Juliana. Half the girls are afraid to say anything it seems, as though any sound at all could force her to turn for the worse. Of the rest, a fair number of them are babbling like a brook, saying anything and everything that comes to their mind as though too much quiet might invite the specter of death to rest here. It really is quite distracting." Annabelle unwound Lydia's hair and smoothed it with the brush. "Then there is Amelia."

Lydia's stomach knotted and she winced.

"I envy you, away from her blithering and complaining. If she is not declaring herself a student and not a laundry maid, she is decrying Mrs. Drummond's favoritism."

"Favoritism?"

"Indeed! What else might it be called when she allows only privileged ones of us the 'easy' work of sitting with Juliana?"

Lydia covered her mouth and snorted.

"As if Amelia would be able to clean up after all the poor dear's mess. I know Juliana cannot help it, but if she is not bleeding, she is casting up her accounts or succumbing to loose bowels." Annabelle shuddered. "If I did not love her so well, I would gladly trade places with Amelia and wash linens. I've even considered doing it just to stop her complaining and spare those who are working with her. She is truly dreadful."

"I can imagine. Are many listening to her?"

"Just Joan and one or two of the others. The same ones who are always apt to attend her."

Lydia scuffed her foot along the floorboards. Until very recently, she would have been among that group.

Annabelle swept up her hair into a tidy knot and tucked in several pins. "There now, you look lovely. Given a little more time, I could have fashioned you some lovely curls, but that will wait for another day, I am sure. Pray, have something to eat. I am so nervous I cannot manage a bite. Still, it will do me good to see you eat."

Lydia dabbed jam on a slice of toast. Mary would like the mixed berry jam Cook prepared—just a bit of this and a bit of that, all stirred together. Perhaps she should send the receipt with her next letter. Mary was such a good correspondent.

"You have not changed your mind about liking Sir Anthony well enough, have you?"

"No…yes…no. I mean I have determined that I shall like him. It is the best choice I have, is it not? He gives me no reason not to like him after all." Annabelle wrung her hands in her lap. "But he was to see my father about the settlement, and I have no idea what to expect."

"You said your father wishes—"

"My father wishes me settled on any terms, no matter how meager. I doubt he would argue at whatever Sir Anthony proposes."

"Then you will be very pleased, I am sure." Lydia brushed crumbs from her fingers.

"How can you say that? My father will care only that I will not be a burden on him should I be widowed. Only a small jointure is required to accomplish that end. I suppose it is entirely selfish of me, but I would like some kind of pin money in the settlement."

Lydia grabbed her hand. "Sir Anthony said he will provide education for any children you have and declared that he is a generous, if jealous man. There is good reason to hope, nay expect, he will offer an agreeable settlement for you."

"He did say that. You are right. That is precisely what he said." Annabelle set the brush on the dressing table and paced the length of the room. "This is exactly why I need you with me. I am becoming so addlepated over this! I need someone sensible to help me through."

Lydia laughed. "Sensible? I am flattered, but I hardly think you should rely upon me for of sense. No one has ever considered me sensible."

"Well you may not be sensible with numbers and the lot, but when it comes to sensibilities, you are very sensible indeed."

Lydia rose and pushed the chair at Annabelle. "Listen to what you are saying! You are far too anxious for your own good. Here, have some tea and a bit of toast. It will settle your stomach and your nerves."

Annabelle perched on the chair and accepted a cup from Lydia. She sipped and nibbled and peered out the window. Halfway through her toast, she sprang up. "Oh, look, look! There is his carriage! We must to the drawing room!"

They rushed downstairs and arranged themselves to await his company just in time to hear Sir Anthony's sharp rap at the door. Three breaths later, Mrs. Drummond showed him into the drawing room.

"Miss Bennet, Lady Annabelle." He bowed, his finely starched cravat not moving as he did.

Lydia curtsied and removed herself to the dainty writing desk beside the window. With a little bit of fortune, they would both forget her presence.

"I am pleased to relate to you the details of my most successful visit with your father." He lifted his chin and straightened his shoulder, a bit like a peacock about to display, and reached into his pocket and withdrew several crisply folded sheets.

Sir Anthony and Annabelle's father must have reached a settlement for their marriage. Lydia retrieved paper and pencil from the desk.

Marriage.

Lady Annabelle would be married in just a few short weeks. She would be respectable and out amongst society again, hosting parties, attending dinners and balls.

Oh, to keep company in society again! Even Lady Catherine's drawing room was not so dreadful. It would have been a welcome diversion from the unvarying life at Mrs. Drummond's.

Would she ever receive such an invitation again? Would she ever be respectable again? Could she be respectable if she took a position as a governess or a companion?

What of Mr. Amberson? What had he meant the other night in the moonlight? Did he truly care for her?

That kiss…oh, his kiss…it was so unexpected…so completely improper…so entirely wonderful…and so different. Wickham had never kissed her the way Mr. Amberson had: so gently, so tenderly, so respectfully. Was it possible to be so improper and yet respectful at the same time? It made no sense, but it certainly seemed so.

He was so very different from every other man she had ever considered. She had never given him very much thought.

No, that was not wholly true.

Far from it.

He consumed so many of her idle thoughts. She regarded his lessons regularly, and practiced as he suggested. She dwelt upon his ideas—how many of her drawings had been inspired by his music? She thought of him when she drew his hands, and that secret portrait of him which would never see the light of day. Every time she saw Mr. Birch, she remembered him.

Gracious! How much time did she spend dwelling upon him?

Perhaps even more than she had thought of Wickham. With him, her concerns had always been about her sisters and how jealous they would be, and how Mama would think her so clever for finding a husband. But very little about Wickham and what he felt and wanted.

She swallowed hard, heart racing and a warm, prickly flush creeping up her neck. Mr. Amberson had become such a part of her daily existence. He was so very, very dear. What would it be like not to see him every day, to make music with him and talk about their art? Her heart clenched, and she could not breath. Pray let it not be!

Was it possible he felt the same? He said something of it, though certainly not the brash declarations Wickham had made. How little those had meant? Could Mr. Amberson's speeches, so much quieter and more reserved, mean more?

"Do you find the terms agreeable?" Sir Anthony asked.

Annabelle pressed her hand to her chest. "Indeed sir, I am most grateful. You described yourself as generous, and you did not exaggerate. No doubt, my father found your terms most pleasing."

"He did not complain when he signed the settlement papers." Sir Anthony's smile was nothing less than smug.

Could it be Annabelle's approval pleased him? The glint in his eye certainly suggested it. He did after all say he liked praise and admiration. At least his actions warranted it.

He tucked the papers back into his coat pocket. "Your father also agreed to my suggested timing for the wedding: six weeks from when you accepted me."

Annabelle swallowed. "Just five weeks or so from now?"

"Indeed, and I have a surprise for you."

"You have already done so much. There is no need."

"I must argue. A bride does require a new gown and I mean for you to have one. You have an appointment with the best modiste in Summerseat this morning."

Annabelle's eyes grew very wide. "I do?"

"Yes, you do. Have you given thought to who you wish to stand up with you when you wed?"

"I would like it very much if Lydia, Miss Bennet could stand with me."

Lydia jumped.

"Then bring her with you, and she shall have a new gown as well."

Lydia stood, hands trembling. "That is most kind of you sir, but I am sure I cannot accept."

Sir Anthony's brows knit and his face became stern, a little like Papa's.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled.

"You must, I insist. It is essential that both of you look like you belong at a society wedding. If we are to make a proper entrance into society, it must begin at the wedding. My offer is a generous one, I confess, but it is not pure altruism. I fully expect a benefit from dressing you both properly. And since it is to my benefit, I can hardly imagine Mrs. Drummond objecting. " He crossed his arms.

The tiny twinkle in his eye belied his gruff tone, something Papa's eyes never did. Was he pleased to find a way to ensure his gift would not be rejected?

Annabelle sighed. "I cannot argue with your reasoning. Society is both demanding and harsh. It is good, and wise, of you to consider those demands even now. I fear, it may take me a little time to begin thinking of life in those terms once again."

"I will have the society pages from London sent to you that you may familiarize yourself with them over the next month. I want you to be acquainted with the fashionable set when we arrive in London ourselves."

"What ironic material to be studying my final days with Mrs. Drummond."

"I shall inform her of my wishes so that she does not interfere with you."

Annabelle bit heir lower lip and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "I expect it will require your explanation. She would hardly believe me, I am afraid."

"I left instructions with the dressmaker for a generous allowance for both gowns and will inform Mrs. Drummond of your appointment."

"You have not already designed the gowns yourself?" Annabelle's eyebrow climbed high on her forehead.

Sir Anthony chuckled. "Are you calling me overbearing?"

"I said nothing of the sort. I simply asked, have you already designed the gowns?"

"No, I did express my preferences, but I leave gowns to the purview of those who will be wearing them." He guffawed.

"You find me amusing sir?"

"I do, Lady. Your spirit is refreshing and just as your father warned me it would be."

Annabelle's eyes narrowed. "What did he say of me? That I am headstrong and unmanageable and in need of very firm supervision?"

"Those were not his exact words…and I respect you too much to repeat them, just as you respect me too much to disregard my desires in this matter."

Annabelle flushed and looked aside. "Oh. You are quite correct. And I do appreciate your generosity."

"I know that you do." He clasped her fingers. "We shall make a good go of this, you and I. This will be an agreeable situation."

"I…I value your faith in me, sir."

"I shall remind you, you said that." He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "I shall speak to Mrs. Drummond and leave you to the modiste. I shall call again in a few days." He bowed and withdrew.

Annabelle stared after him.

Lydia hurried to her side. "So the settlement?"

"It is everything a proper wife might ask for. By all appearances, he means to treat me as though I were not…as I am." She sank back onto the couch. "I am astonished. I could not have asked for better. It is far more than I deserve."

"I am very, very happy for you." Lydia clasped her hands.

"I am so happy you will stand with me. I am sorry I did not ask you sooner, I should have. It was most indelicate for you to be asked this way."

"Are you sure you wish for me—"

"Absolutely. You are the one who has stood with me through this all—who else would I ask? And you are to have a new gown, too!"

"I am all astonishment. Even understanding his reasoning, it still seems very generous."

The door swung open and Mrs. Drummond swept in.

"Indeed, he is most generous. You must hurry. Get your bonnets and be off to the dressmaker immediately. It would not do to keep her waiting." Mrs. Drummond's brows drew together and her eyes narrowed. "I know I need not remind you to be careful to honor his wishes about your gowns. Remember, these are not to please yourselves, but to please him. Since he already spoke to the modiste, listen to her and take her advice."

"Yes, madam."

She turned her gaze to Lydia. "I am surprised as you are, but given his reasons, I have approved his request. I need not caution you not to speak of this among the other girls."

"Madam," Annabelle said softly, "will the rest of the girls be able to attend the wedding?"

"If it pleases Sir Anthony, I am of no mind to deny him. He has already suggested you might like to have the wedding breakfast here. He has offered a very liberal sum to pay for it. If he asks what you would like, you may suggest it, but if he does not wish it, you must not become petulant."

"I understand."

"I trust that you do." Mrs. Drummond nodded slowly, the expression she used as much as a warning as an acknowledgment. "Now hurry, both of you. Mr. Amberson is taking the post in today, He will see you to the dressmaker." Her eyes lingered on Lydia.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23 **

Mr. Amberson waited for them near the front door, his long fingers clutching a thick stack of letters. "Miss Bennet, Miss Fitzgilbert," he bowed, "shall we be off?"

Miss Fitzgilbert curtsied. "Thank you."

He opened the door and ushered them out into the bright afternoon sun.

Lydia strode past with a sideways glance, but he did not return her gaze. While he had never ogled her as Wickham had, he had never failed to look at her.

She turned away, throat pinched tight. Did he despise her now?

He closed the door behind them and followed. His long strides crunched through the dry leaves and pebbles, regular as counted measures. Lydia glanced over her shoulder. He had never been prone to excessive conversation, but this silence sliced with a cold, sharp edge.

Oh, how he must hate her.

Annabelle glanced at her and her eyebrows rose. She looked over her shoulder and tipped her head. Lydia looked away.

Annabelle stumbled. "Oh!"

"Are you injured?" Mr. Amberson caught her elbow.

She clutched her ankle. "Thank you, sir. I think I am well, but my half-boots have come untied. I feel like such a cake. You go on whilst I tie them. I shall catch up in just a moment." She waved them on.

Lydia pressed her lips together. Did she have to be so obvious? Kitty had used the same ploy often enough. It had seemed so clever then, but surely Mr. Amberson would only disparage her all the more for it.

"If you are certain." He shrugged and walked on.

Lydia stared at Annabelle, but she did not seem to notice. So she rushed to catch up to Mr. Amberson.

One, two, three, four steps. The gravel-crunch stopped as the road turned dusty with soft dirt.

He cleared his throat and plucked at his cravat's knot. "Miss Lydia?"

"Yes," her voice was little more than a little girl's squeak. Pray not let him reject her outright.

"I wish to know…that is to say…might I ask…" He ran his finger around the inside of his stock, spoiling the folds of his cravat.

"My father hated it when I dithered about a point."

"I see, then…then I shall come out directly…as I should. Yes, yes I should."

No wonder Papa hated it!

"I…I received some new music in the post."

"Music?" She stopped mid-step and stared at him.

"Yes, quite. It is a very fine piece, one of my favorites actually." He dabbed sweat from his brow with his crumpled handkerchief.

"What of this favorite piece of music?" Her brow knotted so tight a headache would surely not be far behind.

"I like it very well, you see. And it is…it is a duet."

"A duet?"

"Precisely. And I wondered if…if you might…if it would be agreeable that I might teach it to you, in our lessons."

She blinked several times. "Our lessons?"

"That is if you wish to continue them. My aunt…she intimated that perhaps you have improved enough and are no longer in need of music lessons…that perhaps another master, a drawing master, might be more appropriate to your accomplishments."

"Oh!" She gasped and her knees softened.

He caught her forearms. "Miss Bennet!"

"No, no, I am well. It is just…" she exhaled heavily and sucked in another gulp. "Lessons, yes…that is to say, I do not think I am nearly accomplished enough in piano yet. I should very much like to continue on in my lessons. If you are still willing to be my teacher."

"You do not wish to study under a different master?"

She shook her head. "I have barely learned to play duets. I think that a very necessary accomplishment, do you not?"

He mopped his upper lip. "Yes, Miss Bennet. I believe so."

"In what way do you agree with my friend?" Annabelle looped her arm in Lydia's and slipped between them.

"That music is very desirable in the drawing room," Lydia whispered. Words were not supposed to choke so on their way out.

"And that all of you should continue to practice performing after dinner." He added, shuffling the pile of letters under his arm.

"Oh," she pouted just a little. "And I thought I might have missed an interesting conversation."

"No, Miss Fitzgilbert, I fear my conversation has rarely been considered interesting, particularly to a young lady like yourself. What might a humble music teacher speak of? I am certain with your upcoming nuptials and reentrance into society, little I might say could hold your attention."

"Might I ask a favor of you sir? It has come to my attention there is a particular piece of music Sir Anthony prefers. He sent me the music, but I am a little uncertain of the fingering of certain passages. I should very much appreciate your help with it."

"I would be happy to make your next lesson about that piece. Bring it with you when we next meet. And Miss Bennet," he reached into his pocket and handed her a tightly folded paper. "Please review this score for our next lesson."

Pray let him not notice how her hands shook! She took the music and tucked it in her reticule. "Yes, sir."

He led them to a door beside a lovely shop window. "The dressmaker's shop. I shall leave you now." He bowed and held the door for them.

The distinctive smell of a dressmaker's shop: the faintly coriander scent of Indian silks, the green, sheep-y aroma of wool, beeswax, a touch of expensive perfume and fresh flowers greeted them. Butterfly tingles fluttered against her ribs. How she loved the dressmaker's!

Mama had always sought her advice when having a gown made and she had spent many a pleasant hour there. Even though her own gowns had always been passed down from Jane and Elizabeth, it had been jolly fun to look through the fashion plates and fabrics and imagine the gowns put together.

"Miss Fitzgilbert?" A stern looking matron in a striped dress approached.

How stunning! Her gown was deceptively simple, no ribbon, no lace. Instead, the stripes were cut to form patterns and send the eye sweeping around the skirt, pausing at the peaks of the ruffles where clever diamond pattern poufs rested. What a brilliant design.

"Yes, madam." Miss Fitzgilbert curtsied, "and my friend, Miss Bennet."

Lydia bobbed. "What you have done with the stripes on your bodice is utterly striking. You have used them to create—"

"An illusion of shape and size, tasteful, yet drawing the eye to a woman's assets. You have a very fine eye, Miss Bennet. I see you will be a great help to your friend?."

"Thank you."

"If you will follow me, I have some drawings for you to consider." She led them to a high table and gestured to a pair of stools. Several fashion plates interspersed with hand sketches—and not very good ones—lay spread before them.

"These designs have been particularly recommended for your wedding dress. They reflect the latest fashions and will be most suitable for other occasions as well."

And the taste of Sir Anthony, no doubt. Lydia scanned the images. He did have an admirable eye for fashion. Still, the sleeves on the first would not flatter Annabelle's broad shoulders. The skirt on the second was far too embellished and would not move well enough to emphasize her graceful, elegant walk. But the third…

"This one," Lydia tapped the third fashion plate. "In a pale silk, perhaps with a net over-dress, like in the last drawing, embroidered with roses, or perhaps, no, no, that lace there to trim the edges. And a pelisse to match, for the weather will be quite cool by then."

"That lace is very expensive, I fear it will be outside the budget I have been given."

Annabelle stared at them both. "I have not even considered all the drawings yet. Permit me to do so before you go about designing the particulars of my gown."

Lydia harrumphed. Mama had said the same sort of nonsense at the beginning, but eventually learned just to accede to Lydia's recommendations. "Go ahead and do, but you will agree with me once you have."

"Your friend has made excellent suggestions." The modiste glanced at the lace.

Probably developing her argument for why it would be necessary and how to convince Sir Anthony of it.

"I am sure she has, but I will still consider all of these myself first. Whilst you wait on me, why do you not begin considering her gown."

"Of course. Come." The modiste beckoned Lydia to another table, also laid with drawings. None were as fine or fashionable as the ones shown to Annabelle, but she could hardly have expected that. They were all very lovely still.

"This one," Lydia slid a drawing closer. "It is very much like the gown you are wearing."

The modiste fingered the edge of her sleeve. "Yes. Few actually realize it. The dress is very plain on its own."

"But you have done something quite extraordinary. Few could have managed the same."

"I have a growing reputation for quality gowns, unlike what those anyone else provides."

"So then you are open to new and imaginative designs?"

"I am, however I find most ladies are quite satisfied with my designs."

"Have you a paper and pencil?"

She folded her arms and snorted. "Just a moment." She disappeared and reappeared a moment later. "Here."

Lydia quickly sketched out a figure, blending the stripes the modiste wore with elements of four of the gowns in the drawings before her. "This, in muslin, with a subtle stripe on the top, made like yours. But the bottom like that one."

The modiste hovered over her shoulder and tapped the drawing. "Yes, yes I see. With ruching to make the stripes cascade down."

"Exactly." Lydia laid down her pencil.

"I have exactly the fabric." She hurried off to the back room and returned with a frothy bundle of white on white wide stripe muslin. "This."

"Exactly what I was thinking of!"

Her eyes narrowed. "It is more than what has been allotted for your gown."

Lydia turned her drawing over and pulled it close. "Then perhaps I shall take this with me and consider it another time. I suppose I shall make it myself."

"But the skill it would take to work such a gown…"

"I am sure I could sort it out on my own. Although the modiste who created such a garment would indeed receive a great deal of attention."

The modiste grumbled. "I did acquire the fabric for an order that was canceled, and it was partially paid for. The remaining balance is close enough to your budget, I am willing to accept it."

"And you will enjoy trying your hand at my design and suggesting it to other young ladies?"

The modiste cleared her throat.

"I think it fair payment, my design for the difference in the fabric."

She took the drawing. "Very well. I will call my girl out to take your measure."

After she was measured, Lydia returned to Annabelle, still poring over images.

"Oh, I cannot decide. I do not understand how you could put your ideas so quickly together." She planted her elbows on the table and pressed her forehead to her hands.

Lydia sighed and retrieved a blank sheet of paper from the other table. She roughed out another sketch. "Here, this is your gown."

Annabelle opened her eyes and gaped. "It is beautiful."

"That is what I described to you before."

"I am not nearly so good at picturing things in my mind's eye as you. This is just perfect."

"Yes, yes, it is very good." The modiste murmured into her hand.

"You may have this design as well, if it will purchase that lace." Lydia pointed to the lace draping over a nearby shelf.

The modiste chewed her lip.

Lydia covered the drawing with her hand.

"If you will do proper drawings for both these dresses and paint them, I will see she has the lace."

"Agreed." Lydia nodded.

Annabelle gasped. "You cannot!"

"Yes, I can. They are my designs and my drawings. I may do anything I like with them. All you need worry about is pleasing Sir Anthony with how you have so carefully made use of what he provided."

"The deal has been made. I will bring fabrics for you to see." The modiste slipped the sketch out from under Lydia's hand.

"You do not need my help for that. Whilst you select fabric, allow me to dash across the street to the haberdasher's. I have some ribbons in mind for your hair and I need to get some laces for…for Juliana's stays."

Annabelle bit her lip and blinked bright eyes. "You should not go alone."

"I will be a quarter of an hour and no more. I will be back before you made a decision." She squeezed Annabelle's hand and hurried out.

She paused just outside the door. Had she really just done that, traded her art for something of value? Gracious heavens, someone truly esteemed something she had done.

Scene 48: Catching Amelia in the act

She wandered across the street, barely dodging two passing carriages and peered into the haberdasher's window. Yes, those ribbons, plaited perhaps, would do very nicely. And there were the laces, on the shelf just beyond.

"Oh, Beverly!"

That voice! She looked around, but no one was there.

"Oh!"

Could it be coming from the narrow alleyway between the buildings? Lydia sidled along the wall and peeked around the corner.

Amelia… and she was not alone! She slumped against the stone wall, head thrown back, eyes closed. A young man pressed his face to her ample bosom, nearly scooped out of her bodice for his access. Her skirt was rucked up, one of his hands well under it, his hips pressed to hers. Was the fall of his trouser unfastened?

"What the bloody hell are you looking at?" He snarled, glaring at Lydia with lust-hazed eyes.

Amelia's eyes flew open. "Lydia?" She jumped away from him, fluffing her skirts and tucking her bodice. "What are you doing here? Should you not—"

"What are you doing here, and who is he?"

"This is Beverly." Amelia clutched his arm. "And what I am doing here is none of your business."

"Is it not?"

Amelia marched to her. "No, it is not, and if you make it your business I shall tell everyone what I saw of you and Mr. Amberson—alone, in the garden, in the middle of the night. I cannot imagine you want Mrs. Drummond to know of your behavior right under her roof."

Lydia stammered. It seemed she should reply somehow, though no words presented themselves for the occasion. "I…I had her permission to be outside."

"Perhaps you did, but she did not give you permission to kiss her nephew."

"I…I…It was nothing compared to…to this!"

"Are you so certain? I dare say she will send you away, and perhaps even Mr. Amberson. Are you willing to risk that? Not to mention, I know everything about Miss High-and-Mighty's wedding plans. What do you think would happen if her precious knight received a little note detailing her assignations with, oh I do not know…perhaps Beverly's brother."

"She has done no such thing!"

"But will he believe her? As I understand, he has a particular sensitivity to such accusations, or so the scandal sheets would suggest."

"You would not!"

"Would I not? It seems we each have something the other wants, silence. You shall have mine, if I have yours and your help eloping."

"Eloping?"

"I shall not tell you the day yet, but when I need you, you shall help me elope and in return I shall say nothing to Mrs. Drummond or Sir Anthony to jeopardize either of your loves."

Lydia stared. She must look utterly stupid, but what did one say?

"We are agreed then. Go off now, with whatever you have to do and leave Beverly and I be." She shooed Lydia away.

Lydia turned and shuffled away, squeezing her eyes shut. What had just happened?

What was she to do? How could she keep such a secret, much less help in such a scheme? But if she did not, what price was to be paid? She leaned against the cold stone beside the haberdasher's window and forced air into her tight chest.

A pack of shouting young boys dashed past. Best get back to Annabelle. Motion of any kind was better than standing about so stupidly.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24 **

Lydia slipped into the modiste's shop. She pressed her back against the door and gulped a desperate breath.

"Did you find the stay laces?" Annabelle asked, not looking up from the table laden with fabric and trim samples.

"What? Oh those. No, I did not like their wares." Botheration! Pray not let her ask further!

"No matter, it is an excellent excuse to visit the other haberdasher and the milliner next door. I think I have settled on this fabric for the gown. What do you think?" She held up a length of white silk that pooled in her hand and flowed back to the table like a stream held in time.

"It is the one I picked for you. Did you forget? Truly you would save a great deal of time if you would just listen to me. That is what my mother finally decided. She would leave all her choices to me, and was very pleased for it."

Annabelle huffed and muttered something under her breath.

Lydia scooted in front of the modiste to sit beside Annabelle. "You will want something with more body for your pelisse."

"Like this one?" The modiste slid an expensive looking swatch forward.

"What about this?" Lydia pointed to a subtle pale print. The more appropriate, more attractive, one she had suggested earlier.

"Oh, I forgot about that one. Yes, that is much better. I like it."

The modiste frowned and jotted down a few more notes. "Very good. I should think a fortnight or so for a fitting, both of you. You will have my drawings for me, yes?"

The hopeful lilt to her voice raised the hairs on the back of Lydia's neck. The woman was a shrewd business owner, very shrewd, the type Lydia had seen often enough with Mama. "I shall have one prepared for the fitting, the other when the gowns are complete."

The modiste grumbled low in her throat. She looked at the ceiling, probably working out how much the drawings were worth to her.

Lydia leaned back in her chair a little and glanced at the crude drawings on the table. She forced her face into a neutral mask. Any trace of a smile would unnecessarily irritate the dressmaker.

"Very well. I will send a girl with word when the gowns are ready for your fitting." She helped them with their wraps and showed them out the door, all graciousness and courtesy as befit one whose business relied on serving ladies well.

The door shut softly behind them.

Annabelle clutched her arm, words tumbling out like lambs turned out in a field. "You are so clever. Truly your drawings were amazing. I cannot believe how you bartered with the modiste. I would never have thought of such a thing. That lace is so beautiful, but you did not need to get it for me. You should have gotten something for yourself."

"But I did. Did you not see? The most dreamy striped silk. There was nothing more I could want." At least not from the modiste.

"You must let me trim a bonnet to match your gown, then. I have one that I have been meaning to pull apart. The shape will suit your face so much better than mine. Please? Working on it will help me pass the time and not fret so."

A movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Lydia glanced over her shoulder.

"What? Oh…is that? No!" Annabelle dashed off down the street toward a young woman walking rapidly in the opposite direction.

No! Why did Amelia have to make an appearance just now? Lydia ran towards them.

While it was true a lady should not run, she could not be bothered by that just now.

Annabelle caught up to Amelia. "What are you doing walking alone in town?"

Amelia rolled her eyes and cast a sidelong glower at Lydia. "Miss Honeywell sent me to purchase thread." She held up two spools. "No one remembered that we used the last of it sewing last Saturday. We were to teach the little girls to sew today. Joan was to accompany me, but she nicked off to the confectioner just across the way." She pointed to a bright red door at the far end of the street where a pair of young dandies lingered, one very familiar.

"You allowed her to go by herself with those two fops loitering near? What were you thinking?" Annabelle stomped like an irate pony, raising a little cloud of dust.

"She was too headstrong. You know how she can be. I could not stop her. I told her she should not go anywhere near those young men. Those two are just terrible."

"I rather thought you fancied one of them" Annabelle folded her arms across her chest. "Did I not see you talking to them once?"

Amelia flicked her hand. "La, I suppose I did talk to him once or twice. But fancy him-hardly. He is far too fond of himself to suit me."

The back of Lydia's neck twitched. No one with any sense would believe that. Did Amelia know how transparent she was? And she thought herself so very clever.

Perhaps as clever as Lydia once thought herself.

"We cannot leave Joan alone any longer. Come, we must fetch her." Annabelle tossed her head and marched across the street.

Lydia hesitated. Amelia pinched her arm hard.

"Aiy!" She clutched her arm.

Amelia glared something that could only be read as a warning and dashed after Annabelle.

Would that she could simply run back to the safety of Mrs. Drummond's, but that would only make things worse.

Lydia caught up with them just one storefront from the confectioners.

"Wait here with Lydia whilst I fetch Joan." Annabelle marched forward, offering the fops at the door a cut direct as she swept between them.

They sniggered as she passed, vulgar gestures flying between them. Wickham had used those gestures too, when offended by ladies above his station.

"She is so puffed up and proud." Amelia muttered. "I should send her knight a friendly note about her. That would take her down a peg or two. You should have stopped her from seeing me." She poked Lydia's chest with a sharp finger.

Lydia jumped back. "I did not realize it was you until after she took off. It is not my fault she saw you! Perhaps you should have been more mindful. I have a mind to—"

"To what? You will tell Mrs. Drummond? Perhaps you have forgotten..."

"Perhaps we should both hold our peace."

Amelia batted her eyes. How she enjoyed those long, thick eyelashes. Maddening, insulting, horrible girl!

The confectioner's door flung open, forcing the fops to jump out of the way.

Annabelle bustled out, dragging Joan by the elbow. "How could you go off by yourself? You know better! And you abandoned Amelia."

Joan swatted at Annabelle's grasp, stammering and protesting in half-formed words and noises.

Amelia sidled up to them. "That is right. What kind of a friend are you that you would jeopardize my reputation for your love of sweets?"

Joan whirled toward her sputtering. Had Annabelle not held Joan's arm, she might have launched herself bodily at Amelia. What a dreadful sight that would be. How those dandies would enjoy that.

Lydia sidled back. She tugged her bonnet forward; the deep poke brim might hide her cheeks better that way. Had she not done the selfsame thing when she left Annabelle at the dressmakers? Should Annabelle not be furious with her too? Even worse, with Sir Anthony's jealous disposition, it was not just propriety at risk, but Annabelle's very future.

Foolish headstrong creature! Mama had often called her that. Lydia swallowed hard. Perhaps Mama was right.

"We will walk with you back to the workhouse." Annabelle turned Joan and Amelia in the right direction, gave them a little shove and set off down the street.

"Why were you not with us?" Amelia's eyes narrowed into something conspiratorial and sneaky.

Lydia shuddered. The question was inevitable. Odd how it took this long for Amelia to ask.

"You can stop that line of thought right now." Annabelle would be a very effective mistress of the house with that voice. "We were on an errand as directed as by my father with Mrs. Drummond's full knowledge and approbation."

Amelia sniffed and rolled her eyes. She did not like being spoken to as one addressed a recalcitrant servant. Pity her mistress should she end up in service.

Joan snuck a glance at Amelia. They would surely have words tonight. But it would end at it always did, with Amelia having her way. Poor Joan lacked the stamina and the wit to best Amelia.

Miss Honeywell met them at the door of the workhouse. "How could you have taken so long? We have lost nearly the whole day waiting on you." She pulled Joan and Amelia in and waved Lydia and Annabelle on.

"I fear I am in no mood for more shopping today. Do you mind if we look for bonnets and ribbon another day?" Annabelle retied her bonnet strings and straightened her spencer.

Lydia shrugged. "I think it just as well we return to Mrs. Drummond."

"I am glad we are agreed." She looped her arm in Lydia's. "And glad we do not have to continue in their company. They are so disagreeable. Quite horrid, I think. I probably should not say it so freely, but there it is."

If only she knew quite how horrid Amelia could be.

Annabelle carried the whole of the conversation on the way back, muttering about Amelia, gushing over gowns and prattling about the letter she must write. Her mother, who had not written the whole time she had been with Mrs. Drummond, now sent her first correspondence since Annabelle was a proper, betrothed woman and how utterly unexpected it was. Annabelle was of course, uncertain of what to make of it, only sure that she must do her best to continue in her mother's good graces. It would, no doubt, please Sir Anthony.

Thanks to Lizzy's patient example, Lydia knew how to nod, agree and make sounds of interest enough to keep her conversational partner content. She performed the task so well in fact, she did not have to utter a single word all the way back.

At the house, Annabelle rushed off to find Mrs. Drummond. No doubt a full report of the trip, including Joan's transgressions would be summarily delivered. Hopefully Mrs. Drummond would see through it all and understand Amelia's role in the event. She was a clever woman, and wise. Surely she would understand the true nature of the situation and act to keep them all safe.

Would Annabelle tell her of Lydia's transgression as well? Probably not intentionally, Annabelle was a dear, if a bit overzealous as head girl. But Mrs. Drummond would probably know and she would not be pleased. At best a stern discussion would be in the offing. At worst…she cringed.

Lydia trudged upstairs to the music room. None could fault her for practicing and it would pass the time, numbing the dread that threatened from so many directions. That would be very welcome indeed.

She sat at the pianoforte. Her hands trembled so hard she nearly failed to extract the tightly folded music from her reticule. How was she to unfold it?

She drew a deep breath over ten counts and released it over as many again. Once more, and the shaking eased enough to coax the paper flat.

Had he written this score himself? His hand was even, regular, and very neat. Instead, black notes danced across the page in an uneven march, too close together in some spots, too far spread in others, and many smudged in haste.

But he never smudged. He wrote this in great vexation of spirit.

If only he had written her some kind of note!

But that would be most improper. Music, just music, that was safe between pupil and teacher. No one could rightfully criticize that. He had something to say, but would only say it with the greatest care.

She smoothed the creases over her lap and arranged it on the music stand. It was no simple piece by any means. What could he mean, giving her something she probably could not even play?

Habit lifted her hands to the keyboard. What was the fingering for that key?

It began slow and steadily, staid, steady notes, proper and even formal. A very conventional, regular, if complex melody. But the tempo and time signature changed and the notes ran together.

Ouch. She winced at the chord and tried the fingering again. That could not have been correct. So discordant and uneven. While her playing was certainly imperfect, it was not so bad as this. But no, that was what he wrote.

What could have pushed him to pen these mournful, lonely strains? She paused and swallowed hard, tracing the tortured notes with her fingertip.

The next movement changed key and character. The smudged, crowded notes rendered a melancholy melody of regret, tinged with an edge of sorrow and hope. How did one describe it? Repentant, perhaps?

She gasped softly and forced her fingers to slow to match the music's new tempo, not the frantic race of her heart.

The final movement changed keys yet again, rich with longing and laced with hope and desire, but incomplete. It needed a second part to complete it. She stopped and turned the music over, but the back was blank. The rest of the music was missing. Would she ever get to hear it? Somehow she had to.

"That was beautiful." A wan voice whispered form the doorway. Gaunt and ashen but standing on her own, Juliana clutched the side of the door frame.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25 **

Lydia sprang from the piano bench and dashed to the doorway, barely in time to catch Juliana as she sagged against the doorframe. "You should not be out of bed!"

Juliana clutched her, hands weak and face pale. "I could not help it, the music was so beautiful. I had to hear it more clearly."

Lydia pressed her hand to Juliana's clammy forehead. "You are still feverish."

"I know, but it is hardly noticeable. I do…I feel ever so much better. It hardly hurts and the room only spins a little when I stand." She tried to pull herself upright, but could not stand unassisted for more than a moment.

Lydia pulled Juliana's arm over her shoulder. "I am more pleased than I can say, but we must get you back to bed. It is not safe for you to exert yourself too much."

Though she protested, Juliana allowed Lydia to guide her back to her room. Lydia tucked her into bed and ran for Mrs. Drummond.

"She is awake! She came to me in the music room all on her own and the fever has nearly broken!" Lydia burst into Mrs. Drummond's office without knocking.

Mrs. Drummond and Annabelle sprang to their feet. "Juliana?"

"Yes, yes. She heard me practicing and came to listen."

"I pray this is good news. Go fetch Mrs. Harrow." Mrs. Drummond rushed past them. Her staccato footfalls rang through the hall and up the stairs.

Hours later, Mrs. Harrow pronounced Juliana improved. Not strong enough to be out of bed for very long at a time but her chances of recovery were quite favorable now. Moreover, she might be permitted a little bit of company, an hour a day in the school room or music room. But she must still remain above stairs. It was too dangerous for her to manage that particular obstacle yet.

That evening, the girls gathered upstairs in the music room after supper. Though not nearly as comfortable as the parlor, the pleasure of including Juliana once again was worth it. They made a merry time of it, singing and playing pianoforte. Miss Long and Miss Greenville arranged a game of charades that quickly dissolved into hilarity. Even Miss Thornton and Miss Honeywell joined in. Mr. Amberson, though, kept away.

At the end of her allotted hour, Lydia and Annabelle helped Juliana back to her room. Face flushed and sporting a light sheen of sweat, she perched gingerly on the bed, panting a little.

"You look entirely worn out." Lydia fluffed the bed pillows.

The room looked and smelled very much like a sickroom. Perhaps she and Annabelle would clean it next Sunday morning. At the very least, they could air it out properly.

"We should leave and let you rest. You cannot exert yourself too much, yet. Do you want us to help you undress?" Annabelle asked.

Juliana sniffled and shook her head. "I am a dreadful selfish creature. I know, but I do not want to be alone. I feel as if I have been alone since…since it all happened."

"Someone has been with you almost always. We have taken turns sitting with you." Annabelle sat beside her draped an arm over her shuddering shoulder.

A great emptiness opened up in the deepest part of Lydia's soul. "I…I think I understand," she whispered, bracing her back against the wall by the bed.

"But all means tell me then, for I am utterly confused."

Lydia crouched beside the bed and looked up into Juliana's face. "It is him, is it not?"

"Lydia!" Annabelle hissed, fire in her eyes.

"No, not him_,_ the baby."

Juliana nodded, cheeks glistening. "Mrs. Harrow and Mrs. Drummond will not speak of him at all. They merely say to thank God for His mercies. I should focus on the fact my life was spared and I should go on. But…but…"

"You do not want to. There is a hollowness you want to fill with him, some memory of him, you need something to remind you that it was real and happened. But you cannot because no one will let you." Lydia wrapped her arms tightly around her chest.

Annabelle laid a hand on her shoulder.

"You understand…but how?" Juliana's voice barely sounded over the angry thump of her own heart.

"That is how it was for my mother after her losses. Papa did not permit us to speak of any of them, or of little Thomas either. We were to go on as if nothing at all had happened; as if they had never been; as if our suffering had never been. I am convinced our grief lingered far longer than it needed because of it."

"I know it to be foolish and selfish, but I wish I could have held him, seen him—even if I had to lose him. I would have one way or another, my father had arrangements made, you know, if it was a boy, he would have gone to a cousin and her husband. Even if I could not keep him—was it wrong to want that much?" Juliana hid her face in her hands and wept.

Annabelle embraced her. Lydia found a handkerchief in the dressing table and tucked it into Juliana's hand. She slipped out and gathered several sheets of paper and her sketchbook from Annabelle's room and returned. She sat on the bed beside Juliana.

"Here, look." Lydia held out a drawing of Juliana and her son.

"Oh, you did not tell me you did this!" Annabelle gasped.

Juliana lifted her face from her hands. Her eyes widened and with something…was it joy, or hope perhaps?

"Is that…"

"Yes it is. You asked me to stay with you and I did, the entire time. I put him in your arms right after he was born. He…he looked at you and knew you were his mother. You told him how dear he was and what a good boy he was. Those were the words he heard. You fell asleep with him in your arms."

"I did?"

"Yes, and then Mrs. Harrow christened him."

Juliana gulped back a funny little squeak and covered her mouth with her hand. "What name?"

"You once told me you liked the name Michael."

"I did…I do...that was his father's middle name." Juliana rocked against the pillows.

"This is amazing." Annabelle touched the edge of the paper reverently, as though afraid to damage it. "I did not get to see him, but I feel as though I was there. So very beautiful."

"Is this…that is, may I…" Juliana fingered the corner of the drawing.

"Mrs. Drummond asked to have this one. But the first one, the one I drew that day, she sent it to be framed for you. She wanted to make sure nothing will damage it so that you might keep it a very long time. I am sure though, she would not mind if you kept this one until the other is finished."

Juliana pressed her fist to her mouth. "You have given me so much. I am so grateful. I should not even ask…"

"Mr. Amberson and Mr. Weatherby buried him properly in the church yard, near a climbing rose. He will show you where when you are stronger."

"I love roses." Juliana handed the drawing to Annabelle and fell upon Lydia's neck weeping.

A few tears were good for the soul to be sure. But that point came and passed and the wracking sobs continue. Lydia glanced at Annabelle. She must know the right thing to say.

Annabelle shrugged, a slightly panicked look in her eye. "You must calm yourself or you will make yourself ill."

"I…I…know." Juliana gulped and dragged the handkerchief across her cheeks.

"There must be something we can talk about to cheer you up." Lydia bit her lip and looked about the room.

Annabelle jumped a little and clapped. "Oh, I know, I have the most amazing secret to share with you."

"Are you sure?" Lydia whispered.

"Yes, yes, I know no one more trustworthy than Juliana. Oh! Have you a drawing?"

"I do, in my sketch book, several in fact" Lydia place her sketchbook in Juliana's lap. "If you stop weeping you will be able to look at them."

Juliana gulped in several shuddering breaths. "I…I shall try."

Annabelle pressed her finger to her lips. "You must not breathe a word of this to anyone. I am to be married."

"Surely you jest."

"No, it is entirely true."

"But who?"

"He is a man of my father's choosing, a man I had never met until he came here a fortnight ago. He is a knight, Sir Anthony."

Lydia flipped her sketch book open. "Here, the day they met in the parlor."

"It is a brilliant likeness of him." Annabelle cocked her head and studied the image.

"Of you both." Juliana traced his profile. "I can tell, he thinks you are very pretty. The look in his eye is clear."

Annabelle pressed her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, I had not thought, he has never said, but I mean, are you certain?"

"Of course I am. Look at his expression."

"But is that truly how he looked at me, or is that the way you hoped he would?" Annabelle raised an eyebrow at Lydia.

Lydia's cheeks flushed. "I have never truly thought about it. I suppose at least at first that was the way I wanted him to look at you."

"There you see—"

"But then later, even today, that was the way he stared at you."

"So you see I was right." Juliana leaned back against her pillows, pulling the sketchbook with her. "You really do sketch the most expressive faces. It makes me feel as though I am there with them and they are talking to me." She flipped to another page. "Whose hands…oh, Lydia!"

"Let me see." Annabelle crowded in close.

They both turned to stare at her as though they expected some sort of comment or confession.

She turned away.

"I can almost see his fingers moving! He is playing that very somber piece he wrote. I recognize that bit of a phrase there." Annabelle pointed at the tiny piece of music near the top of the drawing.

"Oh, I see a bit of a shawl along the edge of the keyboard. Is this the night Miss Long caught her shawl on the pianoforte and knocked over the card table? Oh, he was quite cross that night." Juliana giggled.

"Gracious, I remember that! Oh, let us see another."

Lydia reached for the book. "No, those are just silly little scribbles."

And they were; just thoughtless little bits of fluff that would not let her rest until she put them down on paper. How could they read so much into them?

"I hardly think so." Annabelle flipped open another page. "Oh, oh, here is my dress, the one for my wedding. Lydia designed it you know. When did you draw in the modiste and her shop? I do not remember seeing that before."

"The dress looks just like what you would wear. Oh, but look—that is the modiste, is it not? She was not very pleased, was she?"

Annabelle chuckled. "She was—"

"No, no, let me puzzle it out. I am sure it is all here…" Juliana traced the gown with her finger. "Let me see, there are dress sketches here and a length of some fabric here. The sketches look nothing like the gown, but the design on the fabric is the same as that on the bodice. There is a clock, but I cannot see the time, so I do not think that important—"

"But it did ring the funniest little chime. I never heard one like it before." Annabelle leaned in a little closer.

"So I must guess that either the modiste was unhappy you did not choose one of her designs or that you bargained a very good price for a particular piece of fabric for your dress. Am I right?"

"It was both." Annabelle giggled. "She really was put out by it all. How do you put all that into your sketch—it is a bit like looking at one of Rowlandson's images with all the little stories he hides there."

"I think Miss Honeywell would caution you against so many compliments lest they go to my head." Lydia closed the sketch book.

"Well I say great talent deserves praise." Annabelle rose. "But it is late and Juliana should sleep. Let us help you get ready for bed."

"And I shall put this here, near your bed, so you may look upon him whenever you wish." Lydia set the picture of mother and baby on the bedside table.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26 **

Juliana's fever returned with the force of a scorned lover, clinging and tormenting for another se'nnight complete before finally surrendering its hold. Annabelle and Lydia rarely left her bedside, forsaking lessons, tea with Mrs. Weatherby, and evenings in the parlor to keep company with her. They cooled her with damp cloths, encouraged her with their company and distracted her with novels and stories, keeping up her spirits until Juliana had indeed overcome her affliction.

Mrs. Harrow insisted that Juliana keep to her room a full five days after the fever passed, but did permit her to enjoy an hour in the music room with company each night. Mrs. Drummond zealously watched by for any signs of overexertion, barely permitting her to move from her chair.

During that week, Lydia and Annabelle begged leave and were granted permission to move into Juliana's room. After a very thorough cleansing, during which Juliana was banished to rest in Annabelle's chamber, they shifted furnishings to accommodate three. The room was crowded to be sure, but it was far better than someone being left out of the secrets, hopes and fears shared under cover of nightfall.

Annabelle held more than her fair share of the conversation. But then again, she had the most reason to. In just a few short weeks, she would be deprived of such company, possibly forever and must make the most of her confidants now.

Juliana talked about her baby a little, but mostly about what it might be like to apprentice with Mrs. Harrow. She feared she might lack the courage midwifery would require, the kind of courage Lydia had shown in staying with her through her travails.

For her part, Lydia listened. It was something she had not often done and found it required a great deal more thought and concentration than she realized. How was it that Elizabeth was so good at it, making it look so very easy? With practice though, it became easier, and she began to hear more than was actually said. Though they pressed her, she found little to say—something that had never happened before. Somehow giving voice to things so fragile, so uncertain seemed an invitation to disaster.

After a full week free of fever, Mrs. Harrow declared Juliana might be permitted to make her first journey out of the house. Mrs. Drummond declared that it should be to attend Holy Services.

Somehow it seemed fitting. Had the baby survived, Juliana's first journey out would have been to church to thank God for her safe delivery. She had been preserved through her travails and that was reason for thanksgiving.

Before church though, Sunday cleaning had to be done. Lydia and Annabelle hurried through scrubbing both rooms, insisting Juliana confine herself to dusting the furniture, and that only because she insisted on doing something. Dressing for church afterwards rivaled the excitement of preparing for an assembly.

"Your stays, are they comfortable?" Annabelle adjusted Juliana's laces once more.

Juliana patted her stomach. "It has been so long since I have worn them, it feels quite odd. But everything feels rather odd right now." She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. "Thank you for replacing my old laces."

"We ought to make you some new ones." Lydia looked over her shoulder into the looking glass. It was still quite odd seeing herself without a cap.

"If we work together, I suppose we can finish before…before…" Annabelle chewed her knuckle.

Juliana clutched Annabelle's hand and she seemed to calm. How was it Juliana always knew what to do?

The door flew open and Mrs. Drummond bustled in. "Girls, all of you, you must come downstairs directly. Sir Anthony is here, completely unexpected, and he wishes to see you and your two friends."

Annabelle blanched and grabbed for Lydia and Juliana's hands. They walked together down the stairs descending slowly and carefully for Annabelle's sake as much as Juliana's. An arsey-varsey tumble down the stairs would serve no one well.

Mrs. Drummond led them into the drawing room.

"Sir Anthony." Annabelle curtsied shaking so hard she nearly did not make it back up.

"Sir, may I present Miss Morley?" Mrs. Drummond tapped Juliana's shoulder and she dipped in an equally unsteady curtsey.

Lydia bobbed with her, keeping a firm grasp on Juliana's elbow.

Sir Anthony removed his hat and bowed. "Good morning, ladies."

His suit fit him like he was born in it—a testament to his tailor and valet. No doubt they would be a force to be reckoned with should Annabelle not prefer his mode of dress. But his taste appeared excellent, conservative, not fussy. Obviously he was particular, but there was hope he would not be impossibly so.

"To what may we owe the pleasure of your company, sir?" Annabelle asked, a pleasant, but clearly false note in her voice.

"Do you not recognize the date?" His look clearly suggested she should.

"I fear I do not."

"Three weeks from our wedding—the vicar shall begin to read our banns today."

Annabelle gasped and turned to Mrs. Drummond. "The banns?"

"Yes, it is time for that." She stroked her chin. "I think the rest of the girls should learn of it now. At church with the rest of the parish will do well enough for them. Will you join us for dinner afterwards? The Weatherby's are planning to be with us."

"And you, Lady Annabelle, would you like me to dine with you?" The corner of lips turned up and she cocked her head.

"I suppose it depends upon how you feel about impertinent questions. I dare say there will be quite a number demanded of you if you sup with us."

Her voice was steady, but her color and the brightness of her eyes suggested her courage was not as sure.

"I have a great deal of experience with impertinent questions. I would be pleased to accept your invitation." He nodded at Mrs. Drummond. "I should like to sit with you for services this morning, but would just as soon avoid creating a spectacle when we enter. I thought perhaps it best to arrive early and enter quietly before the church is full. My carriage is at our disposal."

"That is very kind of you, sir." Mrs. Drummond said.

"I have room for four quite comfortably. So in addition to Miss Bennet, I thought perhaps your…convalescent friend might be a fitting companion for the journey."

"Oh, I think it a splendid and generous offer, sir. Thank you." Annabelle turned to Juliana, "Please, say you will come with us."

Juliana turned to Mrs. Drummond.

She frowned and her face shaped into a familiar sad and determined mask. "You offer is most kind sir, but…ah…have you considered the reflection her company might have upon you both?"

Juliana studied the floorboards, clutching her hands tight before her.

Of course, Mrs. Drummond was correct, but oh, it was so beastly unfair for Juliana to be stigmatized so when she was the kindest and gentlest of all of them.

"I am aware, madam. But if my bride is agreeable, then I see no issue. It is not as though we will remain long in Summerseat in any case." He tipped his head toward Annabelle.

She gulped.

It would be so difficult to remain behind when Annabelle left. Lydia's cheeks grew very hot and her stomach clenched. Thank heavens Juliana would remain at least for a little while more.

"Very well, you may go. Fetch your wraps; I will have a word with Sir Anthony."

Mrs. Drummond had that look on her face. They made haste from the drawing room.

"I do not think she is accustomed to someone making decisions without consulting her." Annabelle whispered and tittered.

"He is a bit high-handed." Lydia glanced back at the drawing room door.

What would a confrontation between Mrs. Drummond and Sir Anthony look like? Would she have the temerity to scold him as she did the rest under her domain or would his power to determine Annabelle's future constrain her?

"But just as generous as you said. Few gentlemen would have considered including me. No, no, do not be all prickly about it." Juliana laid her hand on Annabelle's arm. "I am quite resolved not to pretend things are other than they are. I am grateful to find there is some kindness in the world."

Annabelle sniffled and drew her upper lip over her teeth. "He is kind. You are right. And I must be grateful that after all he has endured he is kind and not simply bitter."

Juliana kissed her cheek. "That is exactly what you must remember when he seems overbearing. If you do that, I think you stand a very good chance at being very satisfied with your new life."

"I hope you are right."

Sir Anthony's carriage was as plush and well-sprung as Mr. Darcy's. The time she had ridden in it, she had been far too preoccupied to attend to it. Mary's last letter said that Lizzy was very happy in Derbyshire and was settling in well to her new role as mistress of Pemberley. Perhaps she should write Lizzy, but would she even read it? Their parting had been so bitter. Lydia cringed. So many things she regretted saying. At the very least, Lizzy deserved an apology.

They arrived at the little parish church before the rest of the parishioners. It was not nearly so pretty as the little church in Hunsford parish, but Mr. Weatherby was far more pleasant to listen to than Mr. Collins who only preached to please Lady Catherine.

Sir Anthony guided them to the pews they usually occupied.

"Are you sure you wish to sit here?" Annabelle asked. "We do not have to sit with the rest of the school if—"

"I am not going to begin a habit of being embarrassed by you—or your connections. If it helps, consider that I expect no less from you. Sit down. I will join you in a few moments, but I need a word with the vicar, first." He bowed and left them at the pew.

"I do not know what to make of him. He is such an odd mix." Annabelle took a seat, just in from the ends of the pew and smoothed her skirts.

"A little like coffee made too strong then sweetened." Lydia said.

"And you shall be the cream that mellows him and makes him palatable." Juliana sat beside Annabelle and patted the spot beside her.

Lydia took her place and settled in to observe people as they arrived.

A few minutes later, Sir Anthony returned, and sat beside Annabelle. He removed his hat and placed it in his lap.

Whispers began immediately, but Sir Anthony drowned them out with a summary of his latest correspondence with Annabelle's father. Was she aware her brother had recently purchased a new hunter? Her mother was all in anticipation of the coming season in London, and her sister would soon be coming out. A grand ball was being planned and they might be able to attend.

The trifling details were sufficient to keep their focus away from the more uncomfortable aspects of their surroundings. The few startled glances Lydia did catch would find their way into her sketch book soon.

The whispers grew louder at Mrs. Drummond's arrival. Ignoring them with poised, elegant grace, she greeted the vicar and made her way in. Mr. Amberson, Miss Honeywell and Miss Thornton followed close behind.

Miss Greenville, Miss Long and Ruth gasped and covered their mouths as they entered. Mrs. Drummond had obviously not warned them.

The murmurs rose to a deafening roar.

Juliana snuck her hand into Annabelle's and squeezed as Lydia caught her gaze and mouthed: _Ignore them._

Mr. Amberson filed into the pew and stopped beside Lydia, the other teachers behind him. He asked permission with his eyes before he sat down.

At least the roar of her heart now drowned out the mutterings around her.

He sat close enough that she could feel his warmth, touching but not touching. She caught his gaze from the corner of her eyes. So somber, worried, but with maybe just a touch of hope.

She moved her hands to mimic a keyboard and played a silent opening measure.

He sucked in a sharp breath and blinked hard. His cheek twitched, drawing his lips up just a fraction. His fingers danced across an invisible keyboard playing the first measure of the missing part.

Mr. Weatherby opened the service. "I publish the Banns of Marriage between Sir Anthony Sheridan of Derbyshire and Lady Annabelle Fitzgilbert of Summerseat. If any of you know cause, or just impediment, why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time of asking."

The low whispers erupted into full scale talk.

Sir Anthony nudged his hat to cover his hand as he grasped Annabelle's tightly.

She clung to him.

One more image for Lydia's sketchbook.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27 **

As soon as Mr. Weatherby closed the service, well-wishers—or so they tried to appear, though they were little more than curiosity seekers and gossips—converged on the newly announced couple. Lydia and Juliana closed ranks around Annabelle and blocked off those who would try to separate her from Sir Anthony. He stood slightly ahead of her, answering questions and receiving good wishes and promises of invitations while Annabelle nodded and curtsied as required.

His subtly widened eyes portrayed shock and ill-ease. To his credit, though, he did not make a solitary escape. It must have been tempting with all the matrons plying them with questions. Did he fear Annabelle's responses, or was he cognizant of her near panic? Her pallor was rather obvious.

For a moment it appeared some of the other girls would try to make their way through the crush. Mrs. Drummond called them away and the teachers herded them out. There would be plenty of time for the inquisition to continue at school. Was that not why Mrs. Drummond invited Sir Anthony to come for dinner? Had she known this would be the way of things? That would surely explain the very cross look in her eyes.

They lingered until the crowd thinned enough to permit escape. Sir Anthony announced something about being expected for dinner and blazed a trail back to his carriage. They piled inside and he pulled the door shut behind them. Never had the sound of a carriage door slamming and the clank of stairs being lifted been so soothing.

He threw his head back and huffed. "Good God, I did not anticipate that." He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "These vultures are every bit as voracious as those in London."

Annabelle huddled between Juliana and Lydia. "They were quite energetic." Her voice wavered and her face was white as the muslin of her gown.

"I had thought it best to test society's reactions here in Summerseat before going to town. Had I any idea it would be like that I would not have had the banns read. It was not my intention to put you through—" He waved his hand toward the church.

Annabelle wrung her hands in her lap. "I am sorry, sir. I fear my reputation…"

"Enough of that. Mine is every bit as colorful and endlessly fascinating and possibly more familiar to that rabble. I am every bit as much to blame as you." He corrected his posture and straightened his lapels. "I have come to a conclusion and a decision."

"Yes, sir." Annabelle swallowed hard, eyes on her hands clasped desperately in her lap.

Lydia steeled herself and Juliana did the same, pressing their shoulders to Annabelle's.

His lips worked into several different frowns and his gaze wandered to the sideglass. "I have far more experience dealing with these gawkers and magpies than you. I know I can endure them. It is clear you do not enjoy the same thick skin. I fear you will not be able to manage what will be required of you."

Annabelle stammered word-like sounds but they were choked with the sound of stifled tears. He raised his open hand.

"I should have said I cannot expect you to manage it _alone_. I see you will require a companion to support you as you take your place beside me. I can find one for you or you may select one of your friends to accompany you." He looked from Lydia to Juliana. "I will handle the arrangements with whoever claims you. A very fair allowance and a comfortable situation will of course be assured."

"Sir!" Annabelle jumped. "I—"

"Yes, I am generous, I am well aware." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "But have no doubt that this serves me as much as you. I cannot have you so drained by the harpies that you cannot properly perform your duties."

The carriage rolled to a stop beside Mrs. Drummond's.

"Wait here a few moments whilst I speak with the school mistress. I will not have another inquisition over dinner." He pushed the door open and jumped down before the coachman could lower the steps.

"I cannot believe it." Annabelle cried into her hands.

"That was quite a scene." Lydia chewed her lip. "At the church I mean…"

"For all his highhandedness he is a very good man. You are very blessed." Juliana squeezed Annabelle's shoulder. "He is entirely right, you know. You will fare far better with someone familiar by your side. Things are never so difficult as when you believe yourself alone."

"But what am I to do? I know this should make me very happy, but how am I to make such a dreadful choice?" She wrapped her arms around her waist, cheeks glistening.

How indeed?

Lydia and Juliana traded glances.

"You must take—"

"Lydia"

"Juliana." Lydia grabbed Juliana's arm. "No, listen and do not argue—"

"But I have arrangements with Mrs. Harrow. My course is set. You have no such fixed plans."

"It will be months at least before you are strong enough to even begin our normal chores. Simply dusting this morning was almost too much for you. Or have you already forgotten how exhausted that left you and how difficult it was for you to catch your breath?"

"That was simply a matter—"

"Do not brush me aside." Lydia glowered, aping Mama's sternest expression. "That was a sure sign that your convalescence is only just begun. How long will it be before you can be of use to Mrs. Harrow?"

"Not very long I am sure, perhaps a fortnight or so." Juliana turned her face away and gazed at the floorboards.

"While that might be what you want us to believe, you do not even believe it yourself. You know it will be months at least before you regain your strength." Lydia leaned across Annabelle's lap and clutched Juliana's hand. "I am not trying to be cruel. Indeed, I am not. You cannot forget, your time is limited. I fear your recovery will be too late. The money that would have paid for your apprenticeship will instead be spent upon your recovery. Then what will you do?"

"But you—"

"My situation is not so dire. My brother Darcy promised to maintain me here two years and find me a situation after, upon Mrs. Drummond's assurance I had improved. I…I will make sure she can give him such a report. He is not the kind of man to turn his back on a relation." She swallowed hard but the lump in the throat remained stubbornly in place. "I …I despise the thought of losing you both, but I cannot be so selfish as to deny you the chance of a comfortable future."

Annabelle looked from one to the other, eyes brimming.

Lydia grabbed her hand. "You must ask Juliana, for I declare if you ask me, I shall refuse. I shall not be moved." Lydia folded her arms over her chest and set her jaw.

Juliana and Annabelle fell on her neck, sobbing and murmuring things she could not understand.

How would she ever do without them both?

Sir Anthony returned and handed them out of the carriage. Only his eyes bore evidence of his discomposure. Every other facet of his being appeared entirely correct and presentable. Had he and Mrs. Drummond exchanged words?

Lydia held her breath to control her giggle. She should not be nearly so amused by the possibility.

He took Annabelle's hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her inside, Juliana trailed a few paces behind.

Lydia hung back. A familiar burn, like a hornet's sting when prised from its place, scorched in her chest. She took a step closer to the door.

No, it felt too much as it had the day she arrived. If she entered the house she might just shatter with the effort to contain it all. The effort to breathe alone might be more than she could muster.

No she could not go inside; much less face dinner among so many questioning faces who would no doubt ply her for information as soon as Mrs. Drummond was out of sight. She gulped back the bitter tang at the back of her throat. Food was definitely a terrible idea right now.

She skirted the front door and slipped into the garden behind the house. Shaded and private, perhaps she could gather her thoughts more fully there.

Was that why Lizzy was forever walking in Kent?

She passed the clump of heather where Mr. Birch kept watch. He was a little more visible now, as the stalks withered a bit with winter's approach. Still none had claimed to find him and Joan completely avoided the garden, still fearing large rats. Only Mr. Amberson shared her secret.

Mr. Amberson.

Was she a fool to give up a chance to live with Annabelle in society for the chance to study with him a little longer?

It was not as if she were a fine musician or ever would be. No, she was good enough to make quite a good show in drawing rooms. She might even be sought out to entertain there and enjoy compliments from it. But she had not the true gift of music, not like he did. That was only to be found with her pencil and colors.

She sank to the ground and wrapped her arms around her knees.

No, this was not about lessons. Nor was it about the certainty of her future.

All she had said about Darcy's promises had been entirely true. But she had not told the truth. His promises made it convenient to stay, but offered her no compelling reason.

No, there was only one reason to ignore an opportunity to leave Mrs. Drummond's keep, one that months ago she would have seized upon as life itself.

"Miss Bennet?"

She started, though the voice was soft and looked up into weary, worn eyes. "Yes, Mrs. Drummond."

"You have been missed at dinner. Are you unwell?"

"I had not expected services to be so…"

"Mr. Weatherby deemed it all quite appalling. I fear though, I found it unsurprising. If only either one had spoken to me first, a great deal of unpleasantness might have been avoided. They seem to forget years of experience have given me a fair amount of insight into such things." Mrs. Drummond looked over her shoulder.

Perhaps she hoped someone would come out behind her, seeking her opinion on something, anything.

Lydia joined her watching the door. "Are the other girls—"

"All in uproar? Indeed, and it will take some doing for it all to settle down. You must harden yourself for some very intense curiosity for a few days."

She pressed her forehead to her knees. Harden herself indeed! She would have to become stone itself to endure the barrage. Perhaps she could just make her home out here for the duration. "Did they tell you of Sir Anthony's offer?"

"No."

The word usually did not have three syllables.

"After all that has happened, he determined Annabelle needs a companion. He told her she could select one of us to join her. I expect he will approach you soon with terms for Juliana's situation."

Did it hurt when her eyes bulged like that?

"Juliana? She chose—"

"I insisted. Juliana's health is too fragile. What better place for her when her father withdraws his support?" Lydia shrugged.

It was not untrue. One did not lie to Mrs. Drummond.

Mrs. Drummond stared at her.

"I shall miss them both very dearly."

"We all will, I am sure. There will be much to be done, but for now, come back and join us all in the parlor. I imagine the intelligence you shared will soon be common knowledge. If you stay away, someone will infer you are at odds with them over Annabelle's choice. That will only make things more difficult."

Lydia rose and shook out her skirts. A few dry heather stalks clung to them and she picked them off and tossed them at Mr. Birch. Mrs. Drummond made no notice.

She was right, though, rumors of animosity would do nothing to ease her pain. A brave face for the parlor was not too much to ask.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28 **

The company was already assembled in the parlor, though by the sounds, they had not settled in yet. Lydia followed in Mrs. Drummond's shadow. Perhaps she might escape notice that way.

"How kind of you to join us. You were missed at dinner." Amelia sidled up to her.

Had she been lying in wait? No one else seemed to notice her entrance. Lydia shrugged.

"We were all so pleased to hear you will stand as bride's maid for dear Annabelle." Amelia looked over her shoulder towards Annabelle standing beside Sir Anthony. "I suppose you expect to be made head girl in her place."

"I have given it no thought at all. I am in no hurry for her to leave."

"How very good you have become. What a clever actress! I think perhaps even Mrs. Drummond is fooled."

Oh, that look. Would that she could do what was necessary to remove it from her face! "See that you do not interfere with them."

"Or what shall you do? I know, you will help me. I have my own escape soon planned and I shall count on your assistance when I need it."

Good that she had not eaten or she would surely be casting up her accounts this very moment. What a fitting way to draw attention to Amelia's machinations.

"You need say nothing for I know you are the very soul of reliability." Amelia flounced away.

If only Mrs. Drummond had been looking their way just now! But she seemed quite occupied with the Weatherbys.

The rest of the company gathered around Sir Anthony and Amelia. He was doing most of the talking, so at least he seemed to be avoiding the interrogations he dreaded. Annabelle looked almost comfortable beside him. They were actually quite attractive together. That should sooth his vanity quite nicely.

"If we might press the music master into service, I should like to see what my coin to the dance master has bought me." Sir Anthony gestured toward Mr. Amberson.

"Have you a particular tune in mind, sir?" Mr. Amberson moved to the pianoforte.

"Something lively and fun. Perhaps 'hunt the squirrel' or 'Lord Byron's maggot'?"

"Shall I play both? The hunt first?" Mr. Amberson asked.

"Capital plan." Sir Anthony extended his hand to Annabelle and led her to the top of the room.

Juliana blanched. "I shall sit out, I think."

Ruth and Stephanie looked toward Miss Greenville and Miss Long, their eyes wide and just a bit wild. Surely Sir Anthony could not have realized what had happened during their first lesson.

"We may watch the dancers together." Mrs. Weatherby took Juliana's arm and gestured toward the worn couch. "And have a bit of a chat."

Perhaps she would as well. Dancing held little appeal now and maybe not ever. A chill snaked down her spine, the memory of Juliana's near dead weight in her arms still haunted her dreams.

"Come, come, do not be shy about it. Hunt the squirrel requires six couples at least. Miss Bennet, will you not assist?" Sir Anthony waved his hands like a music conductor.

Poor Annabelle, if her cheeks grew any redder, she might swoon. At least he had not demanded Juliana's participation as well.

Miss Greenville stood nearby. Lydia extended her hand and they took their place as second couple. She waved others into place and soon two sets of three couples waited for Mr. Amberson's opening notes. Perhaps without Mr. Chadwick's sharp tongue and smart cane it would be a less trying activity.

Mr. Amberson's playing certainly seemed affected by the dance master's absence. The lively, happy music buoyed her spirits and she lost herself among the fun of pursuing her partner through the forest of the other dancers.

Miss Greenville stumbled over an odd pucker in the carpet and caught herself against Ruth who squealed at the shock. The whole set laughed as they hurried to get back to place in time for the next couple to begin their chase. Odd, how this was even more pleasing without the demands of a full-on flirtation to balance with the dance steps.

Applause followed the final notes.

"Take hands four for Lord Byron's maggot." Mr. Amberson called.

"We need new partners first." Amelia shoved Joan aside.

She hurried away from Amelia and clutched Ruth's arm. Did she look just a little relieved at the distance?

Amelia sashayed to Annabelle. "You cannot keep the most desirable partner in the room to yourself." She tried to edge between Annabelle and Sir Anthony.

He did not give way and Amelia had to back away a step.

"I believe the choice is the gentleman's, not yours, Amelia." The shift to the Lady Annabelle was always amusing to observe.

Did Lizzy become Mrs. Darcy the same way? Lydia pressed her lips hard. She should not giggle now, but Lizzy growing inches taller and putting Miss Bingley in her place was too rich not to enjoy.

"Lady Annabelle is quite correct." Sir Anthony stared down his nose. "I will dance with my betrothed."

Annabelle sidled a little closer to him.

"If I were to choose to take another partner, it would not be a rude self-promoting little chit who does not understand her own rank and place in society."

A gasp rippled through the room. Lydia bit her knuckle. It was not as though she had never thought those things herself—they all had. But the sweetness of finally hearing them spoken aloud became tainted with the price they would all later pay.

Amelia turned not less than three shades of crimson, ending in a remarkable puce. How would one obtain that shade in watercolors? Even Papa had never attained that color in the height of dudgeon.

She tossed her head. "Perhaps you should be more aware of who you so easily insult."

"Perhaps you should apply yourself to your teacher's lessons in etiquette." Sir Anthony turned his shoulder to her.

Amelia stormed out.

Mrs. Drummond and Mrs. Weatherby hurried after her, determined old ewes chasing down a wayward lamb. A sheepdog might bark and nip, but one did not stand in the way of a leading ewe.

"Join your partner and take hands four, our musician awaits." Sir Anthony clapped sharply.

The room jumped into motion as if glad for the direction. Lydia faded back to the couch, with Juliana.

"How do you feel about living under the roof of such a man?" Lydia whispered.

"I would be reconsidering right now had I not also experienced his kind and generous side. It is not as though she did not deserve his rebuke."

"Still, being called out like that in front of so many is…quite horrible."

Juliana leaned her head on Lydia's shoulder. "I don't know who did that to you, but I am sorry."

"You really are too sweet. You will be very good for Annabelle. I never know what to say."

"But you are much cleverer at fixing hair than I."

"She will have a maid for that."

The music closed to many happy cries and clapping hands.

"We must have refreshments before another dance." Sir Anthony strode to the doorway and called for a servant. When none arrived, he disappeared down the corridor, a search that would likely end in the kitchen.

Had he not realized how few servants worked here?

"Lydia you must play for us whilst we wait." Annabelle caught her gaze and tipped her head toward the pianoforte.

Mr. Amberson nodded and stood just behind and to the side of the pianoforte.

How had her feet carried her to his side before she knew she had taken a single step?

"Have you a piece of music in mind?" His voice was soft, sonorous, caressing the deepest part of her soul.

She scanned the room. Had anyone else heard? How could they all be so deaf? None but Annabelle and Juliana even looked their way.

"I do." She sat down.

"Shall I fetch music for you?"

"No, I have committed the piece to my heart."

His Adam's apple bobbed and he licked his lower lip, eyes wide and warm. He gestured toward the bench. She made room and he sat beside her.

A hush rippled through the room, barely notable over the rush of blood in her ears. How did one play a duet without practice, without ever having heard the other part?

He placed his fingers on the keyboard and waited for her to follow. Long, powerful fingers danced over the keys, weaving a melody she knew though had never heard. A bare tap of his elbow on hers and she joined in her part, a line that seemed both melody and harmony as it wove around and through his.

The lines merged together, overlapping into a single unified sound so tight they could not be pulled apart.

Everything else faded until her entire consciousness focused upon the resounding joy of their joint efforts. Was this what a bird felt when it took flight? No wonder they loathed to come down.

Her heart pinched—they approached the final measures. Another tap to her elbow and he began a repeat of the soaring chorus. She followed, but her fingers took a mind of their own and she improvised around his melody, weaving something entirely new, in keeping with what he had written, but wholly her own.

He responded with an improvisation of his own, harmony to her melody, content to follow where she led. No it was more than content, it was jubilant, accenting her contribution and blending it seamlessly into the whole piece.

He took the lead once again, and she followed into the final closing bars.

Gripping, aching silence oppressed the room as the final notes faded away. She turned to him. Did he feel the same emptiness?

Glistening trails ran down his cheeks and sweat beaded his forehead. Yes, he knew.

The room erupted in applause and delighted calls.

He took her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it, so reverently, so gently she was not sure he had touched her at all.

From the doorway, Mrs. Drummond watched, her face etched into an expression Lydia might draw, but could not name.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29 **

Sir Anthony called for more dancing. Mr. Amberson obliged with two merry jigs. For Annabelle's sake, Lydia went through the motions of the dance. Thankfully her feet knew the steps; her mind could never have kept up. Then Sir Anthony insisted upon cards. Was his lack of sufficient society in Summerseat driving him to play host in Mrs. Drummond's house?

At last, their guests departed. Annabelle hurried to the room they shared, Lydia and Juliana close behind her.

Annabelle shut the door and pressed her back against it. She pressed her head against the worn oak and crossed her arms over her chest. "I hardly know what to make of any of this."

"That duet you played," Juliana sat on the end of the bed, "I have never heard anything like it. It was amazing."

"Did he write it?"

Lydia wandered to the window and pulled the curtain over her shoulder. "Yes, although at the end … when we played it through the second time, it was just improvised."

"You improvise very, very well," Juliana said.

"Is it not time you tell us about him?" Annabelle dragged Lydia to the bed and sat down.

Lydia grabbed a pillow and clutched it to her chest. "There is nothing to be told."

Annabelle huffed. "Of course there is—we saw—"

Juliana placed a hand on her shoulder. "She doesn't know what to say. Here—" She handed Lydia her sketchbook. "Draw your duet."

She pushed it away. "I cannot." That would be worse than dancing naked in the parlor.

"You must. We have told you everything about ourselves," Annabelle grabbed the sketchbook and pushed it at Lydia. "It is only fair."

Lydia gulped and took book and pencil. Her hands trembled and she struggled to open to an empty page. Annabelle and Juliana pulled away slightly. How did they know she needed air?

The pencil settled into her hand, an extension of her heart and soul. Soft lines formed two profiles, the eyes most clearly drawn. Below, a keyboard with four hands playing.

"You are in love with him," Juliana whispered. "I think you have been for a very long time."

Lydia dropped her pencil. "No, no, it is nothing like Wickham."

"That was not love," Annabelle said, "That was rebellion and lust."

Juliana tapped the sketch. "This is nothing like that."

Lydia pushed the sketchbook aside. "I do not know. Is it so very different? He…he kissed me in the garden."

Annabelle gasped, wide-eyed.

"The night he buried the baby. I went out because I could not sleep and found him in the garden, grieving, weeping. It happened then. He apologized and left the garden right after that. We have barely spoken since. Not until tonight at the piano."

"What did he say then?"

Juliana's forehead knotted and she pointed to Lydia's sketch.

"He said nothing to you? What kind of a declaration is that." Annabelle rolled her eyes.

Lydia shrugged. "We neither use words well."

Annabelle grasped Lydia's shoulders. "Someone surely needs to and soon. You are so well formed for one another."

"No, please, please, I hardly know what I think myself. Besides, I am far more concerned with Amelia and her temper right now."

"I am certain Mrs. Drummond had some very strong words after her display in the parlor." Juliana said. "I am sorry she embarrassed you so. It was very wrong of her."

"Wrong, but perhaps not unexpected." Annabelle sniffed.

"I cannot believe Sir Anthony's set down to her. It was something to behold," Lydia said.

"If that does not affect her, I cannot imagine anything that Mrs. Drummond or Mrs. Weatherby could add that would. And certainly her cane? has had no influence either. I have little reason to believe Amelia will suddenly mend her ways." Annabelle blushed crimson.

"That is a very grim pronouncement," Juliana murmured.

"Not everyone is soft hearted and teachable like you. There are some who are steadfastly determined to do as they will."

"My family would have said that of me once." Lydia swallowed hard.

Annabelle patted Lydia's shoulder. "I think that is how all of us came to be here. Some of us have just chosen to do something with the opportunities we have been given, deserved or not."

The next morning, Lydia left Annabelle and Juliana to sleep a little longer while she crept downstairs to start on their chore of cleaning the parlor. She gathered her supplies from the kitchen. The odd, stale scent of the thrice-used tea leaves tickled her nose. The earthy fragrance echoed back to Mama's garden. Perhaps in the spring, Mrs. Drummond would allow her to revive that forgotten corner of the garden. It would be nice to have a patch of her own to tend.

The spring … what would it bring? She would be alone again, like she was when she had just arrived. No, that was silly melancholy. It would not be like that at all. Miss Greenville and Miss Long—and Stephanie and Ruth, they were all friendly with her. And there would be new students too. And Mr. Amberson would still be teaching.

Was Annabelle right? Were they so well formed for one another?

Did he believe so, too?

When they played together—oh, those last choruses were like a single soul shared by two minds. The tears on his cheek spoke everything she needed to hear.

But was it enough? Was Annabelle right? Were there not words that needed to be spoken too?

"Miss Bennet." Mrs. Drummond bustled in, a soggy note in her hand. "This came from the modiste. I expect it is in regards to the wedding dresses, but her girl seems to have dropped it in a puddle, and I cannot make it out. Perhaps you can?"

She extended the sodden missive. It dripped on the not yet clean floor.

Lydia took it and moved to the window. She held it up in a sunbeam. The ink had not been dry long enough to darken properly. The faint lines faded to obscurity amidst the water and muddy patches. It made for an interesting effect though. She might have to try intentionally decorating a paper like that sometime.

"I am sorry, madam, I cannot make it out either."

"I suppose there is nothing to be done for it then." Mrs. Drummond huffed and took the note back, her face wrinkled to match the paper.

"Shall I go to the modiste and ask what she wanted? The parlor is not clean yet, but I can go as soon as I finish."

"Best go now. You have done your share. Go quickly. The modiste has a bit of a temper. I do not wish her to suggest to Sir Anthony anything that smacks of ingratitude. Bring this with you," she shoved the disheveled message at Lydia, "and make she is well aware of where the fault lay in this affair."

"I will leave directly." Lydia curtsied and hurried out.

The scullery maid met her at the door to accompany her into town. Funny how Mrs. Drummond attended such issues better than Papa. He would not have cared if she walked alone.

The girl was quite a chatter box, talking from the moment they left the back door until they reached the modiste. By that time Lydia considered herself quite the expert on the girl's brothers who were employed as under-gardeners at a nearby estate, but might soon be promoted, though one meant to quit at the next quarter day and go to work for another. The maid herself was quite grateful to have employment at a place like Mrs. Drummond's where there were no men about who believe she was there for playing at rantum scantum as well as for mopping and scrubbing.

She had been so anxious when Mr. Amberson came lest he be like the sons of that estate. But he kept his breeches buttoned and his hands to himself. That was her idea of a gentleman.

A life in service was only a step above one as a public woman, and only a very small one when masters thought a girl's wages as good as a whore's socket-money. Lydia swallowed hard.

They slipped into the modiste's shop and Lydia handed her the illegible missive, along with Mrs. Drummond's careful explanation. The modiste rang her girl a fine peal over the sodden note and asked Lydia to return with Annabelle that afternoon to fit the dresses.

That accomplished, they headed to back to the school. The maid began her chatter anew, but Lydia cut her off.

"Wait, hush. Is that…" She pointed across the street.

Amelia sauntered down the lane on the arm of her Mr. Beverley.

"It is, Miss. She oughten not be doing that." She headed toward Amelia, but Lydia pulled her back.

"Wait, let us follow her and see what she is about."

"But the missus ought to know."

"Yes, she shall, but do as I say. Let us follow her just a bit."

The maid shrugged and followed as Lydia ducked into an alley way and held her finger to her lips. That earned a petulant little huff.

Amelia glanced their way once, but her expression remained unchanged. She shrugged and continued on with her beau.

They followed the couple to a fashionable street, lined with houses quite as nice as Uncle Gardiner's. Amelia withdrew something from her reticule and pressed it into Beverley's hand. She stood back, and he marched past several more doors to a freshly painted red door. He rapped the knocker three times and waited.

The door opened. Great heavens, Sir Anthony's man answered! What was Amelia doing delivering a note to Sir Anthony?"

Lydia grabbed the maid's arm."Now you must go to Mrs. Drummond. Tell her exactly what we have seen."

"Will you not accompany me?"

"No, I must do…something…lest this all go entirely aresey varsey."

The maid scurried away.

Beverley entered the town house while Amelia paced half a dozen houses down.

Perhaps she should confront Amelia. But what would she say? Beverley was already with Sir Anthony.

The door swung open and Beverley sauntered out, resettling his hat. Amelia met him three houses down. They exchanged several words. She took his arm, and they left the way they came.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30 **

Amelia and her beau turned a corner and Lydia dashed for Sir Anthony's door. She pounded the knocker, the frantic rhythm matching her heart. His man opened the door.

"Please, sir, I must see Sir Anthony. It is a matter most urgent, concerning the letter just delivered to him."

The man grunted and admitted her. "Wait here." He pointed to a hall chair.

She sat and clutched her hands in her lap, though her heels drummed frantically beneath her chair. A young lady did not to call upon a man, unless it was a matter of business. Was not Annabelle's marriage a business matter for both of them? Many would say it was. Surely that was sufficient to excuse her appearance here.

Still, the front hall remained inhospitable with no paintings and only a very plain paper on the walls. The hall chairs and small cabinet between them were also very plain—his taste or the landlord's?

"Come now, Sir Anthony will see you."

She jumped. When had the dour, towering man returned?

Lydia followed him down a short hall. He ushered her into a narrow office lined with book cases and dominated by a large mahogany desk. Sir Anthony looked up, his face a cacophony of angst.

"The young lady, sir."

"Miss Bennet." Lydia stammered.

He did not rise, instead shoving a wrinkled paper toward her. "I presume you are aware of the contents of this letter?"

"No, sir I am not. But I saw it pass from Amelia's hand to Mr. Beverley's, the young man who delivered it. Whatever it says is a carefully constructed falsehood with just enough truth and misdirection to put any blame of misunderstanding upon you, not her." She leaned forward a little, trying to read the missive, but the angle made it nearly impossible.

"And how do you know this?"

"You saw her performance last night. I have lived with her for many months now. Truth and forthrightness are not her strong suits."

He rose and turned his back to her. Three sharp strides took him to the window seat. Bracing his foot on the seat, he leaned on his knee and hung his head. "Gossip has nearly ruined my life, Miss Bennet. I take such things very seriously. Even you coming here is a dangerous lapse in judgment. I should have thought you more sensible."

"Annabelle is my very dear friend. I would not see her future ruined by a vindictive, unfeeling girl like Amelia."

"What have you to gain in this? You expect to be Lady Annabelle's companion, I suppose?"

"She is my friend, I count her gain as my own. And no, I do not expect to be her companion. She has asked Juliana."

"I imagine you want me to intercede on your behalf, tell her to take you instead as payment for this service you render?" He looked over his shoulder at her.

The derision in his eyes reminded her of Wickham.

"No. Juliana is far better suited to be her companion."

"Why? Surely you stand to gain much leaving that school with Lady Annabelle." He brought his foot down with a thud.

"It does not signify. I am not here for my own sake, but for hers."

"Then tell me, do you know what she is about?"

"I do not fathom your meaning."

"Can you vouchsafe for her actions, her whereabouts?"

"I am with her almost constantly. We have shared a room since Juliana took ill. When she is not with me, she is with Juliana or Mrs. Drummond."

"Then explain this!" He stalked to the desk and pointed to a spot in the letter.

_In the garden, under cover of night I witnessed a tryst between Mr. Amberson our music teacher and one of our students—a figure very familiar to us both. The kiss I witnessed I will not soon forget._

Lydia clutched the edge of the desk, the room wavering about her. She sucked in a deep breath as though it were her last. "She says nowhere that this is Annabelle."

"She does not have to, is it not clear?" He bounced his fist off the desk.

She flinched. "No, it is not. It…it could have been any of the girls."

"I cannot rest with such uncertainty! You know that very well. After all I have been through, I cannot take a chance." He clutched his temples and groaned.

Lydia backed away from the desk and whispered, "It was not her."

He leaned over her shoulder. "That is not enough. I must know who it was if not her."

"I know who it was and it was not her."

"Why should I trust you? Tell me who."

His hot breath burned the back of her neck, like a predator bearing down on her. She dodged away, putting a chair between them.

"I know because it was me. I was in the garden... with him. We did not mean to be there, but were both grieving Juliana's misfortunes and became far too unguarded. Annabelle was upstairs asleep and had no idea of us that night. Mr. Amberson is her music teacher and nothing more."

He glared at her, eyes narrow." And he will vouchsafe your story?"

Lydia screwed her eyes shut and nodded.

"I shall not be satisfied until I hear it from him." He stormed to the doorway. "Ready the coach. I would go in a quarter-hour."

Lydia excused herself and took her leave from Sir Anthony well before the coachman had the carriage ready. He was right, she could not ride in a carriage alone with him without all sorts of talk ensuing. Moreover, he insisted she retreat through the kitchen doors and keep to the mews as long as possible before returning to the main streets. He dared not even send a maid with her, lest anyone wonder why the girl was with her and not Lady Annabelle, so she returned to Mrs. Drummond's alone.

She kept her head down and walked as quickly as she could and would have run if that would not have drawn more attention to her. Several months ago, it would not have bothered her, but now, it felt very uncomfortable and exposed.

What would he tell Mrs. Drummond? Would he cast Annabelle off? Could she lose her last chance at a decent life because of one unguarded moment in the garden? That was too unkind. Pray, let that not be!

Sir Anthony's carriage was already at Mrs. Drummond's by the time she arrived. She tiptoed inside. An eerie hush greeted her. No one seemed to be about downstairs.

The scullery maid found her. She was wanted and should wait outside Mrs. Drummond's office.

Cotton wool filled her mouth and her chest constricted so hard she could barely breathe. Her whole time here she had avoided being called to Mrs. Drummond's office. Surely this would not go well.

Strident muted voices poured through the walls, difficult to make out over the roaring blood in her ears. She leaned against the wall and sank to the floor.

"I demand satisfaction—did you or did you not have secret meetings with this…this man?"

"I have told you, she did not." The low, serious tones of Mr. Amberson's voice soothed her, even muddled through the door.

"As have I," Annabelle said. It was easy to picture the irate expression that went with her tone. "Twice over to be precise. I well understand your jealous nature and from whence it comes, but sir—"

"You were seen in the garden with a young lady, who was it?"

A fist that must have been Sir Anthony's thumped on the desk.

"It was entirely my fault. There is no need to impugn her reputation because of my weak nature."

How did Mr. Amberson remain so very calm? Perhaps it was all his practice with difficult music students.

"Then I cannot believe you. I have no choice but to seriously reconsider my intentions toward Lady Annabelle."

"You would force me to choose which young lady's future—"

"If Lady Annabelle had done nothing wrong, then exonerate her and allow the other girl to bear the burden of her wrongs."

"What you ask is ungentlemanly."

"I do not ask, I insist."

Lydia sprang to her feet and burst in. "Tell him, Mr. Amberson. I have already confessed it to him. He simply needs corroboration to believe my witness." She turned to Mrs. Drummond. "This is my fault. I should not have been in the garden that night; should not have stayed when I saw him there."

Mrs. Drummond sank into her chair, clutching the edge of the desk. "James is this true?"

Mr. Amberson stepped slightly in front of Lydia. "It is my fault, not hers. She had your permission to be there. The fault is entirely my own. She and Miss Fitzgilbert are entirely innocent."

Sir Anthony heaved a great sigh and sagged back into his chair.

"Are you satisfied?" Mrs. Drummond said very, very softly.

She would have been far less frightening had she shouted.

"Yes," he swallowed hard. "I am. I will have her."

Annabelle stood. Her hands quivered at her sides. "How very nice for you, sir. Perhaps, though, I will not have you, or had you considered that? Your performance has been utterly unseemly and your steadfast refusal to believe my word is unacceptable to me. I want nothing to do with you." She tossed her head and marched out.

His jaw dropped. Annabelle was regal in her fury. He gripped the arms of his chair, frozen. "You must speak to her, madam."

Mrs. Drummond's jaw clenched, leaving her voice high and tight. "I shall remind her of her circumstances, sir. You might also wish to consider speaking to her yourself…in a day or so when tempers have cooled."

He rose and adjusted his cravat. "This is not at all what I expected, madam."

"Nor what I anticipated, sir. Be sure I will be dealing with Miss Easton most firmly for her part in this unfortunate affair. However, it would behoove us all to consider how our actions have contributed to this situation."

"Excuse me? Do you imply—"

"I imply nothing. I have said exactly what I intended to say."

"Indeed, madam." He bowed and strode out.

"Close the door, Miss Bennet."

Scene 63: Mr. Amberson's fate.

Mrs. Drummond paced along the back of her desk, keeping in it between her and them.

Mr. Amberson edged closer to Lydia, hovering protectively.

Mrs. Drummond clutched her temples and squeezed her eyes shut. "James, I cannot believe what you have done. You assured me that this sort of behavior was behind you."

He pulled himself a little straighter. "It is of little value, Aunt, but this is not the same thing, not at all."

"I am…I am aware of that, but it changes little. You have violated my trust in you and the trust my students' guardians have placed in me. Girls do not come here to be imposed upon by my teachers."

Lydia craned her neck to look up at him. The lines and shadows of his face spoke more deeply of his angst than any words might. "He did not impose upon me, madam."

"While you might see it that way that is not how anyone else, including Mr. Darcy would interpret this. This is a very grave failure on my part."

"You are not at fault," Mr. Amberson said.

"Everything that takes place here is my responsibility. Had I realized how serious things had become I would have put an end to this altogether."

"You knew?" Lydia gasped.

"Miss Bennet, I am acutely aware of everything under my roof. I have been very aware of your attachment to one another. It was wrong of me not to stop it immediately."

"Why did you not?"

"I can see there is a unique…bond you have. I thought you would be able to manage it in the bounds of propriety. I see I was wrong." She stalked to the corner and turned to face them. "I have no choice. James, you must leave immediately. I shall give you your wages for this quarter, but you must be gone tonight."

"I understand." He bowed from his shoulders.

"But, but—"

"She is right, Miss Bennet. It is for the best." He took her hand and kissed it. "Adieu."

She clutched his hand, but he pulled away and slipped out.

She stared after him. Would the emptiness left in his wake ever heal?

"Will you send me away too?" Lydia whispered.

"I suppose I could. It would be easy to lay the blame upon you and be done with it all. But it would not be right. This lapse is one I must own. I failed to adequately supervise you and keep you from such opportunities. I must write to Mr. Darcy and apprise him of what has happened. I am disappointed in you to be sure, but—" She dragged her hand down her face. "Go now and make no attempt to interfere with James's departure."

"Are you not going to punish me?" She glanced at the cabinet containing the cane.

"No, I do not see it would do either of us any good."

"I am sorry, madam. I did not mean to cause all this."

"It is not entirely your fault. Go now. I have a great deal to manage right now." Mrs. Drummond sank to her chair, slumping like a forgotten sack of flour.

Lydia tiptoed out.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

Half way down the hall, Juliana caught her arm.

"Thank heavens you are here. I have no idea what to do and something must be done!" She dragged Lydia toward the parlor.

"Pray not now. I have nothing left to manage anyone's matters but my own." She tried to pull away, but Juliana held on with fierce tenacity.

"They are shouting at each other and will not stop. He threw Miss Thornton out when she tried to stop him. Everyone is cowering upstairs. But he knows you and just might listen to you." Juliana shouldered open the parlor door and propelled her inside.

Annabelle, eyes blazing and hands parked on her hips, glared from the far side of the room, across the carpeted divide at a villain beyond description. Sir Anthony, stationed near the fireplace, held his ground, heels dug in, brandishing his walking stick like a sword. "I will not have—"

"You are in no place to go about declaring what you will and will not have."

"I will not be spoken to in such a tone." He rapped the floor with his walking stick.

"Then do not offer that tone to me. Perhaps it would be wise of you to recall a man is apt to receive what he himself gives out."

"Perhaps you should take your own advice."

"You think yourself the only generous one in this partnership. Yet, sir, you are sorely mistaken. Perhaps you are too self-absorbed to notice, but despite your wealth and title, there have been few women willing to associate with you, much less consider a connection to you. You may be offering me your material goods, but I have offered you myself and I expect, nay demand you respect that offering."

"To whom else—"

Lydia matched to the center of the room, hands raised. "Stop! Both of you, stop!"

They stormed toward her.

"How dare you!"

"Do not get involved, I do not need—"

"Stop." She grabbed Annabelle's hand. "Listen to yourselves. You are, both of you, better than this. I saw you face that mob at church together, side by side, and you were excellent together. You have been trying to please her and she you and have shown your true, good natures for it. Are you truly willing to allow someone like Amelia to ruin your chance for happiness?"

"But the letter," he sputtered.

Lydia leaned in close and glared. "Truly what did you expect from her when you treated her so abominably."

"You heard her for yourself. The girl was wholly out of line."

"Yes, she was, but that does not mean you needed to sink to her level." Lydia stalked two steps away, and then stomped back. "You think she has no feelings, but I assure you, she does. She felt your words as deeply as Lady Annabelle might have. Do you do this often, lash out and then react in surprise when they retaliate?"

He snorted and tossed his head. "She deserved to be set down."

"Perhaps you deserved your wives'—"

Sir Anthony grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

Lydia broke away, retreating several steps. "No one deserves to be mistreated. You have as good a chance at an amicable match as any I have seen. Better than many, truth be told. If you will both cool your tempers and confront what Amelia did the way you managed the curiosity-seekers, you might be surprised at the results. Remember what you have in common and what you have to gain as allies. Juliana, go and fetch a cooling drink from the kitchen."

She darted out.

Annabelle edged toward him. "I do not blame you for being angry over Amelia's letter, but your anger should be toward her alone."

"Annabelle has done nothing," Lydia said. "You know it was I."

"Yes, yes. That has been made clear." He wandered toward the windows, clutching his forehead, or perhaps it was hiding his face. "I still do not appreciate your insinuation regarding my behavior."

"Lydia is right. If this is how you treat those who displease you, then you do provoke retaliation. I have no desire to be publicly humiliated if I should do something to offend you." Annabelle turned away. "I cannot live with that…and I will not."

"You think me a cad."

"I do not know what to think right now." Annabelle turned her back and studied the bookcase.

He paced several circuits around the room, his steps transforming from angry purpose to slow and thoughtful. On his fourth circuit around, he paused beside her. "Miss Bennet, would you please leave us? There are some things I would say privately."

She hesitated, but his angry scowl was gone, and his soft voice held no more of its earlier sharp edge. She squeezed Annabelle's hand and slipped out.

Juliana met her in the hall with a tray.

"Leave that beside the door. I think the drinks would not be welcome now."

"I knew you would know what to do. It is good the shouting is over."

Lydia swallowed hard. "Yes it is."

Scene: Annabelle and Juliana comfort

That evening, Lydia, Juliana and Annabelle sat cloistered in their room. Everyone else was likewise hidden away, tiptoeing and whispering if they made any sounds at all.

"What choice did he have? What else could he have done?" Lydia said softly, head in her hands.

Juliana and Annabelle sat close on either side, arms around her shoulders.

"It was still utterly cruel that she sent him away," Annabelle said.

"Mrs. Drummond had no choice either. After … after what we had done, how could she permit him to stay? I am very fortunate that she did not dismiss me as well."

"What is she doing about Amelia? She has done both of us great wrong. I do not think I can tolerate the sight of her." Annabelle sniffed.

"She did not say, and I did not ask. I am not sure I really care."

"Perhaps it would be best if you left this place. You should go as Annabelle's companion."

Lydia squeezed Juliana's hand. "It is sweet of you to offer, but forgive me, I am certain I do not wish to live as part of his household."

"I do not blame you. I am not sure I do either." Annabelle slumped against the wall.

"Are you still to marry?" Juliana asked.

"Mr. Weatherby has started reading the banns. There is little choice. However, the date for the wedding is no longer fixed."

"What have you done?" Lydia craned her neck to stare at Annabelle.

"After you left us, I told him I thought him a bully, and I was afraid to live with such a man. He did not appreciate it when I suggested outbursts like that could cause any sensible woman to flee for comfort. He actually stormed out of the house altogether after that. To his credit, he returned an hour later though with a bunch of crocuses and an apology, heartfelt from the look on his face."

"You are not the only one to whom he owes an apology," Juliana muttered.

"He is aware of that."

"You did not accept his apology?"

"I told him an apology with or without flowers was insufficient. If he was truly repentant, he would offer restitution to all he had wronged by his outburst. He needs to make an honest effort to make right the pain he has caused."

"What do you want him to do?"

Annabelle shrugged. "It is for him to determine that and to act upon it. Once he has, we will set a date for the wedding."

"He agreed to this?"

"It was a quite conversation, but I am as stubborn as he and in the end he agreed."

"What if he does not?"

"Then we do not marry, and I am free of what would certainly have been a disastrous situation. If he carries out my request, then we have established the future nature of our relationship, and we are both the better for it. Either way I have won. I would rather be a companion or governess than live with that sort of temper."

"Do not throw away this chance because of me," Lydia whispered.

"I am loyal to you, my friend, but be assured this is for me. If fact, I am grateful to have seen this before the wedding when I still have options and choices, however unpopular they might be."

"What will Mrs. Drummond say?" Juliana asked.

Annabelle tossed her head. "I truly do not care what she thinks of it right now. I am the one who must live with him, not her."

The door squeaked as it swung open and Miss Thornton peeked in. "You are all wanted in the parlor. Mrs. Drummond wishes to address everyone."

Juliana grabbed Lydia's hand and gripped it tight. Dear Juliana always seemed to know when to do that.

The rest of the girls were already assembled when Annabelle, Juliana, and Lydia slipped into the parlor. Lydia kept her head down, but it did not relieve the agonizing sense of being stared at.

Miss Thornton followed them in and shut the door.

Mrs. Drummond sat in front of the fireplace in a chair especially placed there for her. The wide wingback dwarfed her. The force of her presence made it easy to forget what a tiny woman she was. Lines and shadows etched her face, reinforced by the silent tension that filled the room.

Lydia hugged the edge of the room until she reached the spot behind the couch where Miss Long,Miss Greenville and Stephanie perched, nervously wringing hands and tapping feet.

"This has been a very difficult day for us." Mrs. Drummond faced them, but her eyes seemed focused somewhere over their heads. "No doubt there are many stories in circulation and I mean to set them all to rest now. The first thing you need to hear is that I have a share in the blame for everything that has taken place. My oversight in some areas has been lax. I fear I have not been strict enough."

Joan stood. Her eyes were puffy and face pale. "Please, madam, it was not your fault, Amelia slipping out as she did, no one could have stopped her. If her father could not, then you are in good company."

"I appreciate your sentiment but what happens here is all my responsibility. I will be writing to all of your guardians and telling them the facts of the matter. One of our girls was able to escape my supervision and become involved with a local boy."

A ripple of whispers flowed across the room.

"Yes, there have been consequences and no, she will no longer be a student here. She has been placed as a servant in Mrs. Harrow's house until such time as her father chooses to claim her. She will not return to the school under any circumstances."

Gasps filled the room.

"She is a servant now, below all of you. Do not attempt to contact her or accept any familiar behavior from her. She has chosen her station, leave her to it. I will be unyielding in enforcing this."

"A servant?" Annabelle whispered.

"You are satisfied?" Lydia kept her eyes on Mrs. Drummond.

"Horrified. I thought at most she might be caned."

Mrs. Drummond cleared her throat and licked her lips. "Further, our music master has been dismissed."

"No!" Several voices rang out making it hard to tell from whence the protests came.

Several girls aimed objections at Mrs. Drummond, but Miss Long and Miss Greenville looked at Lydia with such sympathy, she nearly lost her composure.

"I appreciate your sentiments, but another course is not possible. Any breech of decorum for a teacher here is ground for dismissal, no matter…no matter…" she drew a deep breath and raised an open hand, "…regardless of the reason."

Annabelle and Juliana pressed in close at Lydia's sides.

"I apologize to all of you for what has taken place. New rules of accountability will be in place soon to prevent future incidents. It is possible some of your guardians may choose to withdraw you from my care for these lapses. If that should occur, I will make no objection and endeavor to make any transitions as comfortable as possible."

Gasps and more whispers surged from one side of the room to the other and back again.

Mrs. Drummond rose, looking frail under the weight she carried. "Finally, Miss Fitzgilbert's wedding. In light of what has transpired, it will be postponed several weeks. When she leaves us, Miss Morley shall attend her as her companion. I anticipate several new students will join us after that." Her voice broke. "I only hope that I might tend them better than I have you these last few months."

Annabelle stepped around the couch to face Mrs. Drummond. "I am grateful for everything you have done for me, madam, and I will not soon forget the lessons you have taught me. You received me when my own mother put me out, and I will always be grateful."

She threw her arms around Mrs. Drummond. Juliana and several others joined her.

Another image for Lydia's sketchbook.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32 **

Over the next se'nnight, a heavy grey mantle settled over the house. Hushed voices and soft footsteps prevailed. None practiced piano nor sang. The teachers did not make note of these lapses, though. It seemed they too felt the aching emptiness of Mr. Amberson's departure.

He had never been a loud, forceful presence among them. He had never raised his voice like other music masters she had known, and rarely scolded. It was his passion for his art and his drive to share it that touched them all. He had changed each of his students, and the teachers he had worked with. Some more profoundly than others, but none walked away from him untouched.

And now he was gone and nothing could fill the void he left.

Lydia sat at the small desk in the schoolroom's window, fighting with a blank page. She wanted to draw Mrs. Drummond, embraced by her students. She had wanted to draw it for several days now. But she could not will her pencil to cooperate. The harder she tried, the more stubborn it became. She tossed it aside. Perhaps she ought to go downstairs and sew for a while.

She stood, but her feet would not move. Another hour spent forming mindless seams and hems and she would surely run mad! How many garments for the workhouse children had she fashioned in the last few days? Enough that her fingers and her mind were numb. But that did nothing to satisfy the aching urge within her.

If she did not create something soon, she would surely burst!

She glanced over her shoulder toward the music room. Even the thought of it threatened to strangle the breath from her. She wrestled the easel into place and set up the watercolors. Not that it mattered what she painted, so long as brush met paper. Dark shapes coalesced into alarmingly familiar features. Mr. Amberson's eyes, just his eyes, at the moment he had said 'adieu' stared back at her from the easel.

The brush slipped from her fingers, clattering lifeless on the floor. She sank into her chair, face in her hands. Wrenching sobs welled in her chest, forcing her to shallow gasps for breath. She had not wept since he left.

The tears, the anguish, they were always there, just beneath the surface, but if she gave in to it, she would lose…something of him. So she held her breath and wrapped her arms around her chest. If she could not be with him, then at least she would not lose what she still had of him.

"Lydia?" Annabelle stood in the door way. "Are you well?'

Lydia sucked in a sharp breath. "I…I am. I just dropped my brush."

Annabelle's gaze locked on the paper. "Oh, Lydia." She dabbed her eyes with her apron. "I hate to call you away right now. But a carriage approaches, and I am certain you will be wanted downstairs.

"Is it Sir Anthony?"

"No, but …just come please." Annabelle grabbed her by the arm and urged her to the stairs.

Halfway down, the door knocker rapped three times, filling the vestibule with sharp, ominous echoes.

Three more steps and Mrs. Drummond, standing near the front door, came into view. She glanced back at them, nodding as she opened the door.

A tall figure, swathed in a fine, familiar great coat stepped in.

"Mr. Darcy, I presume."

He nodded gravely and stepped aside. "May I present Mrs. Darcy."

Lizzy—no, it was Mrs. Darcy, garbed as finely as her husband, walking in.

Mrs. Drummond curtsied.

Lydia's knees buckled. Annabelle grabbed her arm. Between her and the stalwart banister, Lydia just managed to remain upright.

"Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy." She stammered and struggled through a disgracefully ungainly curtsey.

They both looked up, as though they noticed her on the stairs for the first time. Mr. Darcy's eyes widened slightly and he pulled his head back just a bit. Did he not recognize her?

"Lyddie?" Lizzy rushed to her side, jaw gaping.

"I…I had no idea of you coming." Lydia forced out the words.

"Our trip was a little...spontaneous." Lizzy stared at her, studying, analyzing, dissecting.

Lizzy looked so different to the last time Lydia had seen her. She carried herself with a different air—not arrogance or entitlement, but what was it? Peace? Confidence? Perhaps a bit of both. Whatever it was, she had blossomed in Mr. Darcy's care. What would Papa and Mama think to see her now?

Lizzy's gaze weighed heavy on her. Some things about Lizzy would never change. Did Lizzy realize she was staring?

Lydia turned her face aside. The inevitable look of disappointment was more than she could bear.

"We are very pleased to welcome you here." Mrs. Drummond's eyebrow raised in the warning look she often used.

That meant Lydia should echo the sentiment. That would be the polite and proper thing to do. Mrs. Drummond might be pleased, but if Lydia uttered such a falsehood, Lizzy would call her out on it in a mere heartbeat. Surely not a propitious way to begin their reunion.

"Is there a place where my sister and I might talk whilst you speak with Mr. Darcy?" Lizzy looped her arm in Lydia's.

"Show them to the parlor, Miss Fitzgilbert."

Annabelle curtsied and ushered them into the parlor and shut the door.

Lydia paced along the edge of the fireplace. "Would you care to sit Liz…Mrs. Darcy? Shall I send for tea? Have you had a long journey today? Is there anything which might be done for your comfort?"

Lizzy stood in the center of the room, staring at her as though she hardly knew her. "Lydia?"

"I…I…Oh Lizzy, I am so sorry." Her feet moved without permission and she rushed to Lizzy.

Warm arms embraced her and released a torrent of wracking sobs punctuated by babbling confessions, promises of change, and pleas of repentance that made little sense even in Lydia's own ears.

Somehow they made it to the sofa. The restful posture served to free an untapped reserve of anguish that poured out as she clung to Lizzy's shoulder.

Through what felt like hours of unchecked weeping, Lizzy just held Lydia's shoulder and stroked her hair, murmuring soothing sounds. The flow of tears faded to a trickle and Lydia gulped in several deep breathes that seared against the tight burning in her chest.

"Please, please do not send me away from here. I know … I know I did not do right, but I … I have improved ever so much. I think I have … I know I have. Please let me stay. Do not turn me out. Do not send me back to Papa."

Lizzy caught Lydia's chin with a gentle touch and lifted it until their eyes met. "You do not wish to go home?"

"No," Lydia sniffled and blinked hard, but the burning blurriness would not dissipate. "I … I do not like the person I was there. I do not … please do not make me go back."

Lizzy produced a handkerchief from her reticule and pressed it into Lydia's hand.

Such fine soft muslin, smelling of lavender and Lizzy.

Lizzy rocked slightly, biting her upper lip. She did that when she was thinking, especially when she was surprised by something. It did not happen often.

"I will not send you back to Papa."

"Truly?"

"If you see Papa's house as I now do, I cannot send you back to that."

Lydia hid her face in the handkerchief. More tears would be unseemly, but by what other means might such profound relief be expressed? She held her breath and stiffened her spine, until the impending paroxysm subsided.

The door eased open and Annabelle slipped in, arms laden.

"Forgive me for intruding and for being so forward as to introduce myself. I am Lady Annabelle Fitzgilbert. Your sister is my dearest friend."

Lizzy's brows rose high on her forehead. Under other circumstances, the expression would have been funny. Lydia would have to draw her that way some day.

"You are the daughter of—"

"Please, that is not why I came in. My connections are not important right now." Annabelle slid a footstool toward Lizzy and carefully placed her burden on it. "I know you have many questions about Lydia's time here. You may not know this, but when Lydia feels deeply, she is far more eloquent on paper than in speech. I brought these to help her tell her story." She opened the sketchbook to the first page.

"Lydia draws?" Lizzy rocked and chewed her upper lip.

"Indeed, madam, very very well. And though she hardly considers it the case, her pianoforte performance is quite accomplished, too. I shall leave you, though. I am sure you have much to discuss." With a final curtsey, Annabelle made her exit.

Annabelle was right. The sketchbook, the framed picture of Juliana, the sheaf of watercolors, told everything she might want Lizzy to know—and everything Lydia would rather she not. Others might miss the outpouring of her soul into her sketches, but Lizzy? She was the one person who would see them for what they were.

Lizzy knew it too. "May I?"

Was she prepared for such raw exposure? It might be her only means of staying here, with Mrs. Drummond.

Lydia shrugged. "Go ahead, they are only silly, little sketches. Miss Honeywell taught drawing and watercolors to all of us."

Lizzy pointed to the first, primitive sketch of Mr. Birch. "It seems there must be a story here, would you tell me?" She sat, head cocked, eyes bright and ready to listen. Lizzy had always been a good listener.

How much should she tell? There was little point in concealment. Lizzy would eventually know everything.

"It is a picture of a ... a character I made up, a sailor, Mr. Birch." How long ago it all seemed.

With Lizzy's patient encouragement, she told the full story of Mr. Birch's inception and Mr. Amberson's role in it.

Lizzy flipped pages, and Lydia continued her narration of her life at Mrs. Drummond's. As the drawings became more intense, Lydia spoke less and Lizzy asked less. By the final pages they sat in silence, tears flowing down their faces.

Lizzy set aside the sketchbook and forced Lydia to look her in eyes. "Lyddie, I had no idea you would become …" She gestured to the sketchbook. "I am very, very proud of you."

Lydia swallowed hard. "Proud of me?"

No one had ever said such a thing.

"Yes, and Mr. Darcy will be as well. You have truly honored the gift he gave you. I expect that is what Mrs. Drummond is telling him now."

"I do not imagine so. I fear I have disappointed her greatly."

Lizzy brush back loose hairs that clung to Lydia's tear-streaked cheeks. "I never thought to hear myself say this, but, I think you may be too hard on yourself."

A little giggle escaped before Lydia could contain it. "You are right, I never thought to hear that from you."

Lizzy snickered and something snapped. They both fell into peals of laughter.

None of this was truly funny, but after all the tears, this was a far better way to allow the overflowing emotion to be spent.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

The door peeked open and Juliana slipped in. "Excuse me, madam, but Mr. Darcy wishes you to join him in Mrs. Drummond's office."

"Wait here for me, Lyddie." Lizzy rose and followed Juliana out.

Lydia fell against the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. Dust had gathered in the moldings there. She would have to clean that the next time she tidied the drawing room.

What had brought the Darcys here? Was it a good thing or one more pending disaster?

Was it possible Lizzy was proud of her?

She was not apt to lie, so it must be true. But was it enough?

Oh, what was she to do?

Juliana appeared at the doorway, and Lydia waved her in.

"Is that your sister? You look very like her." Juliana sat beside her. "She is very pretty, but a little intimidating I think."

"I do not remember her so before. Mr. Darcy must be affecting her."

"He is very intimidating too, so tall and somber."

"Yes, he can be frightening, especially when he is cross." Lydia sniffled. "I used to think him altogether horrid. But he sent me here when Papa cast me out. I did not recognize his kindness to me then. I am ever so grateful to him now."

"I owe him a great deal then as well. I do not imagine I would have lived without you."

"You are very generous, but I am quite sure I did not do so much as that."

Juliana leaned her head on Lydia's shoulder. "Did she say why they came? Sir Anthony arrived a few minutes ago. He is with Annabelle in the parlor. I think he must have something to do with this."

"None of them said. I truly do not know what to think now. If Sir Anthony had a hand in this, I do not know if it is a good or bad thing. He has already made such a cake of things. I cannot decide whether his help is worth having."

"I am certain he means very well."

"That is hardly reassuring. You think everyone means well. You sound a little like my sister Jane."

Juliana's face screwed up in a little pout.

"Do not fret. Everyone thinks Jane is perfect. Being compared to her is a good thing."

"If you say so."

"Well, I do. You will just have to believe me. Now, I just pray Mr. Darcy agrees with Lizzy not to send me away from here."

Juliana sat straight. "You cannot be serious. They certainly would not—"

The door swung open again. The Darcys and Mrs. Drummond entered. Lydia and Juliana jumped to their feet and curtsied.

Mr. Darcy towered over them both, straight and serious as ever he was. But there was no tension in his shoulders or jaw, and his eyes held no angry fire.

"The Darcys have invited you to dinner and to stay with them tonight." Mrs. Drummond gave her a stern look. "I have, of course, given my approval to the scheme."

An invitation to dinner and stay the night? What was Lizzy thinking? The look on Mrs. Drummond's face made any argument impossible, had she any mind to disagree.

"That is very kind of you, thank you." Lydia dipped her head.

"I have already had a small trunk sent to your room. Juliana, help her pack and be quick. Do not keep the Darcys waiting." Mrs. Drummond clapped twice.

The sharp sound broke through her daze. They curtsied and dashed out.

Juliana leaned close as they trotted up the stairs. "I wonder where they will take you."

"The King's Head is the best inn in town. I am sure that is where they are staying. But what shall I bring? My head is so muzzy I can hardly think."

"Just sit down and I shall pack for you. You need body linen, a night dress…a dress for dinner…and one for tomorrow. Your cloak—" Juliana held up the brilliant red cloak.

Lydia threw up her hands. "Oh please, not that. You take it. I cannot bear to wear it anymore."

"Why?"

"Mr. Wickham bought it for me, and I know they want reminders of him as little as I do."

"But you will be cold."

"Give me your brown wool mantle then. We will be both be warm and happy that way."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Help me into my walking dress, the one with long sleeves. I should wear better than a day dress if they are to be seen out with me. I cannot bear to be an embarrassment to them."

Juliana helped her dress, tossed a few last things in the trunk and shut it. They draped the cloak over it and carried it downstairs.

Mr. Darcy's coachman met them at the foot of the stairs and took the trunk. Less than a quarter of an hour later, Mr. Darcy handed her into the luxurious carriage.

How long had it been since she had ridden in a coach, much less one as fine as this one?

The springs must be new; it rode so smoothly along the stony road. The squabs were full and soft, covered in buttery smooth leather. At another time, she might nestle into them, considering her good fortune to enjoy them.

How different things were now to the last time she had ridden in this coach. In truth, she had never thought to ride in it again.

Mr. Darcy sat facing her and Lizzy. He had not been willing to share the space with her the last time. Though he did not look at her, he was not avoiding her. He was simply absorbed in staring at Lizzy. Was she aware of the way he looked at her?

Of course she was. She was aware of everything around her. She seemed lost in thought. What was she thinking?

Lydia wrung her hands. It was so quiet in the carriage, far too quiet.

"I had a letter from Mary just last week. She says Mr. Michaels is due to return from London soon. Mr. Collins will read the banns for them very soon."

"You have been corresponding with Mary?" Lizzy rarely looked so surprised.

"Just after I arrived, Miss Thornton required us to write a letter. I wrote to Mary, and we have been corresponding since."

"She had not mentioned that to me."

"I do not wonder." Lydia looked at her feet and forced a little laugh. "It is not as if my letters contain anything very important or interesting. We wrote a bit about gardening and some old songs Mama used to sing. Oh, and I sent her some drawings of the school. I think she liked them. Oh, she says Mrs. Collins is doing well."

"I am pleased to hear that. Her letters have been less frequent recently. But I suppose she has a great deal on her mind."

The carriage stopped, nowhere near the King's Head.

Lydia peered out the side glass. "This is Sir Anthony's house."

"He has offered for us to stay here."

Of all places to wish to stay! Lydia bit her lip. "I…I…he is not very pleased with me at the moment. I do not think that he should want me staying at his home."

"Truly? You must be mistaken. It was his suggestion to invite you." Mr. Darcy sounded like he was merely making a remark about the weather. "In fact, he came to Pemberley to extend the invitation himself. Moreover, he has repaired to the local inn whilst we are here—something about not wanting to intrude upon our business."

"That was most generous of him," Lydia whispered.

What business might they be on? Her stomach churned.

The driver opened the door, and Mr. Darcy handed them out.

"We have a room ready for you." Lizzy looped her arm in Lydia's.

Lydia's jaw dropped.

"Do not look so astonished. Do you think we would keep you in the carriage house with the horses?"

Lydia stammered, but Lizzy laughed gently.

"I will show you upstairs. I should think you would like to rest before supper. Would you like some tea and sandwiches sent up as well?"

Lizzy was treating her like a real guest, not a disgraced relation she had no choice but to maintain. Lydia clutched the banister and blinked very hard, her eyes too bleary to see the steps. She nodded, not daring to meet Lizzy's inquiring gaze. She did not wish to be understood that well just now.

Lizzy showed her to a primary bedroom on the second floor. No third floor or attic room for her. The appointments were of good quality, but unremarkable, not of Lizzy's particular taste. But this was not Lizzy's house. This was probably the best guest room in the house."It is a lovely room. I have not had a room to myself in a long time. Even when we visited Rosings, Kitty and I shared."

"Who shares your room at school?"

"Annabelle and Juliana. The room is small, but Mrs. Drummond gave us permission to all share together."

Lizzy's eyebrows rose in that all-knowing sort of way she had. "You have merry times together?"

"I suppose…I had not really thought of it that way. More, I think we have needed one another."

The coachman clomped up behind them, trunk in hand.

Lizzy pointed to the far corner of the room. He deposited it and left.

"Now you have your things, I will send your tea up and let you rest a bit. Best for you to be well-rested for dinner." Lizzy kissed her cheek and closed the door.

That probably meant there was a long conversation in store tonight. Lydia stumbled to the bed and half-fell, half-sat. Still, Lizzy and Mr. Darcy were being so kind to her, a long conversation might not be so very bad.

What had Mrs. Drummond told them?

The room felt far too nice for Lydia, not quite like Rosings Park, but far nicer than any home she had occupied with Papa. She slipped off her shoes and crawled beneath the counterpane, unable to keep her eyes open a moment longer.

She stirred and opened one eye. Where and when was she? She rose up on elbows and looked around. The pretty clock on the mantle that told her two hours had passed was definitely not one of Mrs. Drummond's. A tea tray perched on the dressing table near the window. The day's events hit her with the force of a physical blow.

Why had Lizzy invited her here? She had plenty of opportunity to correct and condemn at Mrs. Drummond's.

It was not like Lizzy to offer something as pleasant as an invitation to dinner only to turn it into an opportunity to scold and find fault. No, that was something Papa seemed to relish.

Lydia shuddered. Thank heavens he was not here nor likely to appear unexpectedly.

She fell back against the pillows, a weight removed from her chest. This evening should not be something to dread. Though, still, what did Lizzy have planned?

She rolled out of bed, her feet near silent on the soft carpet. What a luxury compared to the cold, hard floor in her room at school.

Lizzy had not mentioned what time dinner would be served. Best not tempt fortune by being late.

She sipped the cold tea and nibbled on the dainty sandwich left on the tea tray. What had Juliana packed for her? Thank heavens she had been willing to do the packing. Had it been left to Lydia, nothing useful might have ended up with her otherwise. Lydia opened her trunk. Her sketchbook and pencil lay uppermost. When had Juliana put that there?

How had she packed that without Lydia noticing? She carefully lifted one of Annabelle's dresses—Lydia's favorite among them—from the trunk. Since she had no other gown for dinner, she had to wear it. But it was so very fine, far too fine for her. Did Annabelle know that she had it? Would she mind?

Lizzy would know it was not hers. Lydia bit her lip. But she would not jump to the wrong conclusions—at least she would give Lydia an opportunity to explain.

Dressing without assistance proved a bit awkward, but manageable. She had not realized how accustomed to having Annabelle and Juliana to help her she had become. For all the years she had dressed and primped with Kitty, somehow her sister had never been so indispensable to her as Juliana and Annabelle were.

Oh, it would be so hard when they left. If only Annabelle required two companions…

No, that was a foolish notion. Besides, living under Sir Anthony's roof was out of the question, even if, technically, she was there right now.

She straightened a few hair pins and tucked a shawl around her shoulders. If she waited downstairs, Lizzy would know she was ready and have no reason to worry they would be kept waiting on her account.

The parlor proved easy to find on the ground floor. Beautiful, soft light streamed through the windows. She sat at a small table near the window and opened her sketchbook. Her pencil took on a life of its own. What relief to at last be drawing again, even if it was Mr. Darcy's likeness that took shape on the page. He had worn such an astonished expression there in the vestibule at Mrs. Drummond's. Lizzy too. Her image took shape beside his. How odd, now away from Papa, Lizzy did not resemble him so much as Lydia had thought.

Lizzy must favor her mother.

"Elizabeth is quite correct. Your drawings are very good."

Lydia shrieked, jumped up and juggled her pencil.

Mr. Darcy caught her chair before it fell and steadied the rocking table.

"Please, forgive me, sir! I had no idea you were there."

"I beg your pardon. I did not intend to startle you. May I?" He touched her sketchbook.

Every nerve within her screamed no. It was far too private to share with him. But how could she deny him anything after all he had done for her? She nodded just the tiniest bit.

"Elizabeth said your drawings told an eloquent tale."

"I…I am not very good with words, sir."

"Nor am I, as my wife will attest. I am fortunate in her ability to discern so much though I might say little." His voice was very soft and he did not look at her as he spoke.

How strange for such a commanding man.

He took the sketchbook from the table and gestured to the settee.

She followed him, limbs wooden and stomach clenched.

"So, that is how I looked to you this morning?"

Was that a dimple forming in his cheek? Was it possible?

"You did seem quite surprised."

"I suppose so." He flipped slowly through the pages, from end to beginning.

What an odd way to view them.

"Your drawings have become quite accomplished, in a very short time. My sister, Georgiana, has been studying drawing and painting for a number of years and is hardly so proficient."

"Miss Honeywell is an excellent teacher."

"And you are an excellent pupil it would seem."

The awkwardness of his voice and posture—he did not offer compliments easily or often.

Her cheeks flushed.

"I am very grateful for the opportunity you have afforded me, sir. I am sorry that I was…was not sensible of it earlier…and for the grief I caused to bring this all about."

He rose and strode to the windows, silhouette back lit in the afternoon sun.

She held her breath, spine steeled for the lecture—well deserved to be sure—that was sure to follow.

His shoulders stooped just a mite, not the posture of a man about to deliver a tongue lashing. "Did Elizabeth tell you about my sister?"

"No, sir."

"She was nearly duped into running away with Wickham. It was Elizabeth's intervention that saved her. I could not see fit to punish you for the same error. I owed it to Elizabeth to offer the same help to her sister that she gave mine."

"I am grateful."

He turned to face her, eyesso intense she dare not speak.

"I am grateful, and relieved, that you have taken advantage of the opportunity. I still feel responsible for what Wickham did to both of you. It would be a very difficult thing to bear if only one of my sisters overcame his meddling."

He counted her a sister? She clutched the arm of the settee and swallowed hard. "You gave me a chance, when my father washed his hands of me. I only hope I have not—"

"There you are!" Elizabeth burst into the room. "I am glad to see you both ready. Let us go to the drawing room. Our guests shall be arriving shortly."


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

"Guests?" Lydia gasped. "You must be joking."

Lizzy looked far too satisfied with herself, almost as though she were ready to laugh.

"Not at all." Lizzy slipped her arm in Lydia's. "I have arranged for a small dinner party tonight."

"On such short notice? How?" More significantly, what was she thinking and why?

"It is just a small party who I am certain will be far more interested in the company than the food." Lizzy's eyebrow rose in her funny little way and the corner of her lips lifted to match. "I cannot even vouch for the quality of the food. Sir Anthony finds no fault in his cook, but I have no way to assess his taste in food."

"I would have though it an easy thing for you to discern, Mrs. Darcy." Mr. Darcy's eyebrow matched hers.

Was he teasing? Who would have considered it possible?

"Were it his own home, I am sure I could. But in a house only rented for the quarter, you must grant me that there is very little to go by."

Did he just snicker under his breath?

They entered the drawing room.

Lizzy extended her arm. "You can see how sterile the room is. Nothing personal whatsoever. The only clear thing is that no one actually lives in this place, only stays here."

Lydia glanced about the room. Lizzy was quite right. The room was attractive, but barren of character—like the lifeless backdrop of a fashion plate. Why would anyone wish to sketch such a place?

The door knocker pounded and the front door creaked open to admit muffled voices.

Lizzy gestured toward a chair and Lydia perched, wringing her hands.

Mr. Darcy stood to one side, face calm, but his clenched hands betrayed him. The company was not as familiar to him as Lizzy intimated.

His hands were fascinating. Long-fingered and elegant. One index finger bore a long thin scar. What had caused it?

The housekeeper stood in the doorway. "Sir Anthony and Lady Annabelle." She curtsied and stepped aside.

"Welcome to _your_ home, sir." Lizzy stepped forward, chuckling softly.

"Thank you for the invitation." Sir Anthony sauntered in, Annabelle at his side.

"It is the least we could do to thank you for your hospitality."

Mr. Darcy joined Sir Anthony and Lizzy while Annabelle slipped off to sit by Lydia.

"You look lovely tonight. I am so pleased my dress fits you so well."

"It would have been difficult had it not, as Juliana left me nothing else." Lydia giggled. "I am sorry you did not have it to wear yourself tonight."

"I do not mind in the slightest. She told me she packed it for you, and I am glad of it."

"It is not as though I am not glad of it, but I am surprised at you being here."

"No more surprised than I am to be sure. I could not believe it when Sir Anthony told me we were to dine with the Darcys tonight—at his house no less."

"They are not here by chance, are they?" Lydia glanced at the Darcys.

"I do not yet have the full story, but I do not think so. I know Sir Anthony went to Derbyshire. It seems he must have gone to Pemberley."

"He must have, but I am astonished he would go to such lengths."

"As am I. Extravagance seems to be his nature. I suppose I will have to become accustomed to it."

"Do you know what he told them?"

"You seem ill at ease. Have they been cross with you?" Annabelle's brow creased as though she meant to glare at Lizzy.

"Hardly, I am anxious for they have been very kind and gracious. It is hardly the reception I expected from them, given the way we parted."

"I am ever so glad to hear it. I do not know how I might brook it if he had said anything to cause them to be harsh with you." Annabelle squeezed her hand.

"Do you suppose we are to discuss all that transpired tonight?"

"It would be a singular dinner conversation. I do not expect it."

Lydia released a heavy breath. Annabelle was surely right. Though Papa might tolerate such conversations over dinner, Lizzy would not.

"Shall we go in to dinner?" Lizzy called from the other side of the room.

They walked more as a group than a rank-ordered procession, the men following just a few steps behind the ladies.

Why was the dining room set for six? Lizzy indicated Annabelle should sit at the far side of the table, beside Sir Anthony, leaving Lydia beside the empty chair.

Mr. Darcy began carving the meat and the soup course was served, including the empty spot beside her.

Lydia glanced at Annabelle who shrugged. Lizzy only raised an eyebrow over her soup spoon and sipped the pea soup.

Lydia bit her lip and clenched her teeth shut. Why was Lizzy teasing her so and worse, why did she appear to enjoy it so well?

The knocker rapped against the front door, and Lydia jumped. What an unappealing sound.

"It would seem our final guest has arrived." Lizzy nodded at Mr. Darcy.

He blinked and the corner of his mouth twitched.

Lydia did not breathe for staring at the doorway. How long could it take the housekeeper to lead someone—

"Mr. Amberson." The housekeeper curtsied and stepped aside.

"Mrs. Darcy, Mr. Darcy." He bowed. "I beg your forgiveness, for it appears I am late."

Though he spoke to them, his gaze fixed upon Lydia.

She dropped her spoon into her soup, the metallic clink of metal on china echoed like church bells.

"Not at all, sir. I believe the fault is ours. We may have given you the wrong time. Pray sit down and join us. The soup is only just served."

He made his way in, his long stride awkward in the confined space. His hair was tousled as usual, a great shock of it falling over his forehead. The blue of his eyes seemed a little greyer tonight, like the clouds of a dreary afternoon. Little lines that had not been there before creased his forehead and beside his eyes.

Where had he been all this time? Their separation seemed to have worn on him as much as it had her.

He sat beside her. Though not touching, she could still feel him there. Air rushed into her lungs as though she had not truly breathed since his departure. Perhaps she should say something, but what words would suffice in this company?

She lifted her hand to the edge of the table and tapped out a few bars of the music he had written for her. He responded in kind, adding the next measure, and then they played a few notes together. Could anyone else hear the music?

Sir Anthony stared—no, gawked at them while Annabelle smiled, eyes glistening. Lizzy shared a knowing glance with Mr. Darcy who nodded. But none of them mattered.

She had been walking with but half her soul and never knew. Now he was here, she was complete, made whole.

"Were your travels from Derbyshire pleasant, Mr. Amberson?" Lizzy asked, signaling the soup course be removed.

"I…ah…yes they were. One can never appreciate the countryside so well as when one walks it."

It was at least twenty miles to Derbyshire—how much further to Pemberley? Little wonder he looked worn.

"I am very fond of walking myself. Mr. Darcy is forever losing me somewhere on the grounds of Pemberley. And you, Sir Anthony, what do you say of walking?"

"Not to be disagreeable, madam, but I prefer the view from the back of a horse. Do you ride, Mrs. Darcy?"

"A little, at my husband's insistence. I prefer to drive. He is generous and has provided lovely equipage at my disposal. Lady Annabelle, do you ride or drive?"

Annabelle looked at the ceiling and bit her lip. "I have not done either since arriving at Mrs. Drummond's, but I very much enjoyed riding at one time."

"Excellent." Sir Anthony said softly. By the look on his face, he was already planning a horse for her. Perhaps he was a better man than Lydia had previously allowed.

Light conversation continued around her. Thankfully, though, none required her to speak. Mr. Amberson did not look at her and barely ate. But he slid his booted foot next to hers, not quite touching her. He was not ignoring her, and it was enough.

After the sweet course, Lizzy led the ladies to the drawing room. The loss of Mr. Amberson's company ripped at the rawness of Lydia's heart. Would he return with the gentlemen, or would he disappear again and never return? Both seemed equally likely.

The tea and biscuits waiting for them held little appeal. Both Lizzy and Annabelle tried to encourage her, but her stomach soured at the thought.

"Have you ever seen Sir Anthony's home in Derbyshire?" Annabelle asked.

"We visited his home once whilst touring the area when I first arrived. He was not in residence at the time. I thought the house quite lovely. His housekeeper is very capable. You shall find her a great ally when you take over managing his house."

"You do not think she will disapprove—"

Lizzy chuckled. "Hardly. I believe you will have already won her approbation by your way of managing him."

"I cannot pretend that is unwelcome news."

"Lizzy? Do you mind if I play the pianoforte?" Lydia glanced back at the instrument.

If she did not do something soon, she might just crawl out of her own skin.

"I would love to hear you play. There is music, if you wish, in the cabinet near the instrument."

Lydia sifted through the music without really attending to it. She carried a few sheets to the pianoforte. It did not matter what she played or even if she played well, so long as she could be doing something to distract her mind.

She sat at the keyboard and stared at the black notes dancing on the page. Her fingers though, had plans all their own. Her vision fuzzed and the first notes of Mr. Amberson's duet rang out.

Why was that the only piece she could play now? She ought to stop, but the music poured out like a spring bubbling from the ground and could not be contained. She closed her eyes against intruders and gave way to the insistent flow.

Someone sat beside her and a familiar elbow tapped hers.

She cracked her eyes open just enough to make out the lanky shadow beside her. Opening her eyes fully, she turned her gaze to the keyboard. Long fingers added in the missing line and the duet became whole. The world around her faded into obscurity as the music embraced her. It filled her senses, completed her soul and everything was right in the world, exactly as it should be.

Then it stopped.

A hole as big as the silence opened up within her. Could everyone else see it too?

She looked up, into Mr. Amberson's eyes. The room was empty save him.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

He stared into her eyes in a way no one else ever had—no one else ever would—and raised his hand to her cheek. He stroked the crest of her cheek with his knuckles. She leaned into his touch, savoring, locking it into memory in case…in case…oh heavens! Pray let this not—

"I did not want to leave you. You know that, do you not?"

Her throat tightened so only the barest squeak escaped.

"I…I wanted to tell you my plans, but in truth, I had not formed them until I was halfway to Derbyshire."

"You walked to Derbyshire?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"It was far less expensive than traveling post."

She tried to giggle, but it nearly strangled her. "Why Derbyshire?"

He shrugged. "Where else could I seek relief for my sufferings?"

"Sufferings?"

"You cannot imagine I felt our separation any less than you."

She turned away. "I…I did not know."

He winced and screwed his eyes shut. "I have been a fool in so many ways. I should have declared much more clearly. But you have always understood me so well. I thought for certain you must know."

"I…I had hopes, but without words—"

"You had my song."

"I dared not believe…it seemed too much too hope for all that you spoke in it." She stroked the cool, smooth keys without playing a note.

"Then you understood, just as I knew you would."

"I dared not believe that anyone could think such things of me."

"I should have spoken it." He stood and pressed his cheek to the top of her hair. "I had promised my aunt I was reformed, that I would not interfere with her pupils in any way. That was a condition of my employ."

"A very sensible agreement."

"It was, until I met you. I argued with myself that you were too young; you were my student; you were protected by my aunt. I was not allowed to notice you. But how could I help it? I have never met a woman who speaks the language I speak, who understands what I cannot say. How could I turn away from one who seems to have been formed to be my helpmeet, the other half of my soul?" He paced the length of the room, hands raking his unruly hair.

She bit her knuckle, the breath burning in her chest.

"I was but a moth drawn to your flame, a light burning brighter and more alluring than anything I have ever known. But, I kept my promise to my aunt. At least until that night in the garden. I did not regret that, you know and I still do not. My only regret is that I could not make you an offer that moment." He crossed back to her in three impossibly long steps and dropped to his knee before her.

Lydia gulped as he took her hands and enfolded them in his.

"I have been to see your brother, and there I encountered Sir Anthony. I did not spare him my temper, and he is now well understood of the error of his ways. No one shall ever disparage you that way again, at least not while I live and breathe. I petitioned the Darcys for the privilege to love and protect you all the days of my life, securing both their blessings and approval of a settlement. Mr Darcy has promised to sign it once I have your approval."

"Settlement?"

"I do not have nearly so much to offer you as Darcy has, but I will do everything I can to see you secure and cared for, if you accept my offer of marriage. Miss Bennet, will you be my wife?"

"You do not have to do this. I have already been compromised, what you have done does not change my—"

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

She closed her eyes and abandoned herself to his warmth that ignited every nerve in her being.

"You are the other half of my soul," he whispered in her ear. "Pray do not force me to go about the world an empty wraith, withering for the loss of you. I ask you not for the reparation of your reputation, but for the restoration of myself. Without you I am dry and empty. I have not played a note since I left you, not until just today."

She pressed her forehead to his. "I only picked up my pencil again this afternoon."

"When the heart finds its completion, it does not function alone ever again. Pray do not insist that I try to go on that way. End my suffering. Do not condemn me to further sleepless nights and empty days. Marry me, Lydia."

"The only thing I wanted more than to stay at Mrs. Drummond's was…is to be with you." She laced her fingers in his. "I will be proud to be your wife."

He jumped to his feet, grabbed her by the waist and twirled her around, laughing so deep the windows must have shaken.

"Come, play with me." He seated her on the piano bench and slipped in beside her.

"What shall we play?"

"Just follow me. You will know the song." He pressed his shoulder to hers and raised his hands to the keyboard.

She leaned into him and closed her eyes.

Soft, pleasing chords rose from the keyboard, gentle and warm. They beckoned her to follow, laying a clear path for her. She added a line to his music, one chord at first, but soon blooming into a full part of her own.

The lines intertwined, playing off one another. His, far more complex and full, hers still a little shy and hesitant, but complementary and supporting one another. Neither could stand alone, but together they were more than the sum of their parts.

Though his words had been tender, this—this was far and away more articulate, fluently speaking the depth of his feelings in a way words never would. His joy, his commitment, his love. Oh, his love! How he loved her!

It might have only been twenty miles, but he had walked across England for her. He had not abandoned her, but had fought for her, and strove to make an acceptable offer.

What was more, Darcy had accepted. He would permit her this.

Her heart swelled until it filled her throat, nearly cutting off her breath. Was it possible for one woman to be so supremely happy? Hot trails trickled down her cheeks and she sniffled.

He nudged her shoulder with his and she opened her eyes. Darcy, Elizabeth, Sir Anthony and Annabelle stood around the pianoforte.

"Are we to wish you joy now?" Annabelle asked.

Lydia barely nodded. Warm arms enveloped her, Lizzy on one side, Annabelle on the other.

Beside them, Sir Anthony pumped Mr. Amberson's hand and slapped his back. Darcy stood half a step away, nodded, a small curve to his lips—a veritable outpouring of joy from him!

"Are you happy, Lydia?" Lizzie whispered in her ear.

"I do not have words to tell you how much. He is the best of men, I do not deserve—"

"He has told us his entire story and I agree, he is a very good man. You both have grown and improved so much. You deserve one another. I am proud to claim you both as family." She kissed Lydia's cheek.

"I believe this good news calls for a toast." Darcy held up the port decanter and waved them to middle of the room.

Mr. Amberson took her arm, escorted her to Darcy and placed a crystal glass in her hand.

"To joy." Darcy lifted his glad.

That was possibly the briefest, most insignificant toast anyone had offered in the whole of England. A year ago, Lydia might have been offended by such meager congratulations, but somehow, tonight, they were exactly right, fitting and proper. She lifted her glass and lost herself for just a moment in her betrothed's gaze.

They drank, and she savored the sweet, rich liquid that just barely burned the back of her throat. That flavor would always speak to her of joy. "How did this all come to be?"

"There is indeed a story to be told. Come, sit and we shall lay it all out for you." Elizabeth gestured toward the couch.

Lydia sat between Mr. Amberson and Annabelle, leaning alternately against one, then the other. How could so much warmth and love surround her?

Sir Anthony pulled a chair close to Annabelle and extended his hand to her. She laid her fingers on his. He closed his eyes briefly and leaned back in his chair. A delicate blush rose on her cheeks.

Lizzy and Darcy shared the settee across from them. Lizzy looked so pleased with herself and even Darcy sported a smug glint in his eye. She lifted her eyebrow at him and he gave a little huff.

"You might well imagine my surprise when Mr. Amberson arrived on Pemberley's doorstep, requesting an audience with me." Darcy stroked his chin with his knuckles.

"I am sure I was quite the sight." Mr. Amberson laughed. "Travel weary and wearing a coat of road dust. I had not even stopped to refresh myself at the local inn. Your butler nearly refused my card altogether. Mind you, I hardly blame him."

"He takes his job rather seriously." Elizabeth chuckled. "He _once_ tried to keep me from his master's study."

"Only once." Darcy pressed his lips hard, but his cheek dimpled.

Who could have imagined him capable of that?

"I can only imagine your man's regret following that mistake. Thankfully, I was granted an audience. Be certain though, I had alternative plans in mind had that attempt been unsuccessful."

"You would have stalked me like a hound a fox."

Mr. Amberson pressed his shoulder against Lydia's. "I had good reason."

"But he brought no letter of introduction, how did you come to believe him?" Lydia asked.

"His name was not unfamiliar. Mrs. Drummond has written regularly to keep us abreast of your progress."

By the look on Mr. Darcy's face, there must have been many letters. What had Mrs. Drummond said? Was it possible she had offered her approbation?

"You must agree, his story was not one likely to be fabricated, particularly in light of the fact he asked nothing of me, save my approval."

Lydia gulped. Wickham had demanded, and been refused, ten thousand pounds.

Elizabeth nodded slightly. "And Georgiana vouched for his skill as a teacher of music."

"She has studied under many masters and has never spoken so highly of anyone."

"He is a remarkable teacher," Annabelle said softly. "No master ever taught me so much."

"Georgiana pleaded with me to engage him to teach her."

Lydia gasped.

"I expect it was about that time I arrived." Sir Anthony ran a finger along the inside of his collar.

"You went to Pemberley as well?" Lydia gaped.

"Lady Annabelle left me with a charge that I had to fulfill. Where better to begin?" He shrugged.

"And the butler was familiar with your name, and willingly admitted you." Lizzy's eyes twinkled and her eyebrows flashed up.

"Amberson never mentioned Sir Anthony in his discussions with me. I was quite surprised to hear another layer to the affair."

"One rather unexpected I might add," Lizzy said.

"I had to call upon my dear wife's powers of observation to help me sort out the stories—"

"—and petitions of two men eager to make things right with the women they desired to please." Elizabeth gazed at Annabelle. "After smoothing over the initial awkwardness—"

Mr. Amberson and Sir Anthony exchanged glances and guffawed.

"What she means is she prevented the encounter from devolving to fisticuffs." Sir Anthony scratched behind his ear.

"I had reason to resent the gentleman's interference." Mr. Amberson shrugged.

"A reason that I hope is long past and satisfactorily recompensed."

Lizzy gave him that look, the warning one that would someday wither her children if they ever dared disobey.

"Indeed, madam, it has been, far beyond any hope of expectation of mine." Mr. Amberson sat up a little straighter.

"What have you planned?" Annabelle folded her arms over her chest and scowled.

"I think you will be pleased, Lady Annabelle." Elizabeth still wore her warning look, this time directed at Annabelle.

She shrank back a little.

"With the support of my new patrons—"

Lydia mouthed the word, eyes wide.

"—Mr. Darcy and Sir Anthony, I will be establishing a school of music in Derby, with Miss Darcy and Miss Fitzgilbert—that is Lady Annabelle—as my first pupils. They have also begun plans to sponsor a series of concerts at the Derby assembly rooms to introduce me to the community there."

"Your talent speaks for itself. Once it becomes known, we have no doubt you will not be in want of pupils." Now it was Lizzy's turn to look smug.

Sir Anthony turned to Lydia. "No doubt you will wish to have your own establishment in Derby, but for the first quarter, you may, if you choose, take residence in a property I have there."

"Be warned though, we will of course ask for your hospitality when Georgiana visits for her lessons. Perhaps you might even consent to host a few teas with the local ladies to entertain us whilst we are there," Lizzy said.

Annabelle squeezed Lydia's hand.

Sir Anthony leaned close to her. "Are these arrangements satisfactory to assure you of my repentance?"

"I am astonished at the completeness of your penance," Annabelle whispered. "I had no idea of what you might do, but this is beyond what I might have imagined."

Lizzy nodded at them. "I applaud you both on the strength of your characters. Despite the unusual nature of your circumstances, I am pleased to count you among our connections."

Mr. Amberson took Lydia's hand and laced his long fingers in hers. "Is this agreeable to you? I have no estate to offer. There are no assurances that I will draw enough students to live comfortably. I appreciate my patrons, but I do not expect continuing charity."

"You are a brilliant teacher and I am certain we can get by." Lydia's voice was tight in her throat "I spent many years watching my mother make do on a small income."

Lizzy's eyebrows shot up.

"I know you are surprised, but I did pay attention. I learned a great deal, even though you never saw it. And I am certain you can remind me of anything I do not recall."

"I take that you mean you approve?" Mr. Amberson squeezed her hand.

"Very much." How could she not?

"Then I suppose all we have left is to plan a wedding." Elizabeth winked.


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36 **

Two days later, housekeeping chores finished, Juliana sat on the edge of the bed in their little shared room, eyes wide, gaping at Lydia and Annabelle.

Lydia wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned against the headboard biting her lower lip.

"If I did not hear it from your lips, I am sure I would not believe it. It is all so like something we might read in a novel." Juliana hugged herself and rocked a little.

"Can you believe he went directly to Pemberley, with no introduction no less, to ask for her hand?" Annabelle leaned her shoulder into Lydia's. "How romantic—"

"—and courageous! Mr. Darcy does not look like a man any would want to approach without very good reason."

Lydia patted Juliana's hand. "That is his normal look, but he is really very kind and thoughtful. One must simply overlook how little he speaks and how often he scowls. Lizzy tells me that he is uneasy in company and does not know what to say."

"How strange for a man of his consequence. I would never have suspected such a thing." Annabelle shrugged. "But there is no doubt as to the goodness of his character. Sir Anthony speaks very highly of him."

Lydia sucked in a deep breath. "Sir Anthony! I hardly know what to make of him."

"Did you expect him to go to Mr. Darcy himself?"

Annabelle pressed a knuckle to her lips. "I expected very little from him to tell the truth. I could not believe what he had done to both of you. At that point, I was very happy to see him gone, though Mrs. Drummond thought me a fool."

"Surely you do not feel that way now." Juliana leaned closer.

Annabelle looked away. "No, I do not."

"I thought I saw signs of a decided preference whilst we were with the Darcys." Lydia tried to catch her eye.

Annabelle's cheeks colored. "I…I…"

"Do not pretend, we can tell. You do like him."

"I…I do. I am not sure I want him to know that yet, but I do. He was so…so extravagant in trying to make things right. I feel that must speak to his true character, that for all his stubbornness and quick temper, there is something very good inside him. It is difficult not to like a man who would try so very hard to please me when he could in truth simply walk away."

"I think he likes you as well." Juliana reached for Annabelle's hands. "Why else would he go so far?"

"Do you think it possible? I…it is very pleasing to think that he might."

"There is no doubt that he does." Lydia slid off the bed and fumbled in the little cabinet near the bed. She flipped her sketchbook open and handed it to Annabelle. "This is the way he looked when you played the piano for him. I may not be an expert on gentlemen, but I must believe that is the look of a man well on the way to being in love."

Annabelle bit her knuckle. "It seems too good to dare believe. I do not deserve to have a man of his standing at all, much less in love with me. But, I would not complain if it were true." She pointed at Lydia, "That is certainly not something you have to concern yourself about. There is no doubt of Mr. Amberson's feelings."

Lydia pressed her hands to very hot cheeks.

A sharp rap at the door made her jump. "Mrs. Darcy is here," Miss Greenville called through the door.

"Go, go, but you must tell us everything she plans for the wedding and breakfast!" Juliana gave her a little shove in the right direction.

Funny, talking to Lizzy never used to make her so nervous. But then again, Lizzy's good opinion never really mattered until now.

Scene 74:Wedding Plans

Lydia pulled on her pelisse and bonnet as she hurried down the stairs.

"Be careful! I am not so much in a hurry that you need to take a tumble down the stairs!" Lizzy peered up from the bottom of the staircase.

"I did not want you to think I would keep you waiting."

"We are in no hurry. We have the whole day for our leisure."

Lizzy lead her to the waiting Darcy carriage, and the driver handed them in.

Lydia settled into the plush squabs. How luxurious not to have to walk everywhere.

"I know what you are thinking, Lyddie. I do like to walk, but Mr. Darcy does not wish to see me out unchaperoned."

"Papa never concerned himself with that."

"No, he did not, but he should have. He did us all great disservice with his lax attitude toward propriety."

Lydia pressed her lips hard and looked away.

"You wonder if I do not chafe under Mr. Darcy's restrictions."

Lydia sighed and nodded. Lizzy had not changed at all.

"It took time for me to become accustomed to it, and I confess, we did have a few strong words on the matter. Truth be told, I would rather drive myself and do away with a driver altogether. But, Mr. Darcy is correct, it is unseemly in the eyes of society and would not serve either of us well. He is is not safe for a lady to travel alone. So, I drive alone on our estate, but outside of that, I honor his requests."

"And it does not chafe?"

"Sometimes, but I no longer have only myself to please. More than anything, I do it because I love him, and it pleases him to feel he is taking care of me … and I like the feeling of it as well. It is very different and takes some getting used to. I imagine you will have to accustom yourself to it as well. Your Mr. Amberson would see you well cared for, too."

"So is this a warning or a lesson?"

"Which does it need to be?"

"I would like to think it a lesson, one that you might hope I would easily learn." Lizzie clasped Lydia's hands. "That is exactly what I hope. Now, I thought we might visit the dressmaker first. I would very much like to see this dress she is making for you. I should like to see you married in something new and very pretty."

"I do so hope you like it. I drew the design for it."

"You did? Having seen your drawings, I should not be surprised, but it sounds like there is a tale to be told there. I demand satisfaction."

Lizzy's smile and laugh were so genuine. Is this what she and Jane used to share?

"I suppose it is a bit of a story." Hopefully Lizzy would be entertained and not find her forwardness shocking.

Lizzy listened with rapt attention, her eyes sparkling and lips twitching with what was hopefully amusement.

The carriage stopped at the dressmaker's, and the driver helped them down.

"Are those your paintings?" Lizzy pointed through the window.

"Oh my! I had no idea she would display those so prominently." Lydia covered her mouth with her hands.

Lizzy marched through the door, back straight, chin up, every inch a proper gentleman's wife. She went directly to the counter bearing the framed paintings. Lydia followed several steps behind.

"These look like they might have come from _La Belle __Assemblée_. They are extraordinary."

"Those designs are exclusive to our shop, madam." The modiste swept in. "If you should be interested…" She stopped short and stared at Lydia.

"My sister tells me you are preparing a dress for her. I would very much like to see it and determine if it is adequate to wear for her wedding."

"Wedding? I was led to understand that the other young lady was the bride."

"She is one of the brides. My sister has only recently been betrothed. She insists the dress you are preparing will do for her wedding. I hope to agree with her."

Did Lizzy enjoy the look of confusion and astonishment she engendered on the modiste? Probably. She never did have much tolerance for superciliousness.

"Yes, yes, of course, madam. If you please, Miss Bennet, my assistant will help you dress." The modiste waved the seamstress in to lead Lydia away.

The last time she and Annabelle were there, they had been expected to help each other dress. How very different wasLizzy's reception! Was it just the fine dress that made the difference? That would surely be the first thing the modiste noticed. But it would have been difficult to miss Lizzy's bearing and assurance.

Would she ever carry herself like her sister?

The seamstress pronounced her ready and ushered her out to the private room with the full length mirrors. She and Annabelle had such fun the last time they came for their fitting, relishing every detail in their fine new gowns. Would Lizzy approve of her gown as much as Annabelle had?

Lydia stepped up on the small dais in front of three tall mirrors and held her breath.

Lizzy circled the dais, clucking her tongue. "I can certainly see your hand in this, Lyddie, and a bit of Mama's influence as well."

Was that a good thing? A single glance at Lizzy's face would tell her, if only she dared look. But if she were disappointed, it would be too much. Pray, speak soon!

"What do you think Lyddie?"

Did she mean a test now? No, this was too cruel.

"Pray Lizzy, please tell me your opinion."

"Does it matter so much to you?"

"Lizzy! It is too unkind of you to tease me so."

"The gown is lovely and perfect for your wedding. I cannot find anything to improve upon. But now I have told you what you wish to know, you must answer my question from yesterday. Who is to stand up with you?"

"Do you think it wrong of me to ask Annabelle instead of Mary or Kitty?"

A little of the bloom faded from Lizzy's cheeks. "I think it a very pleasing choice."

"There is more you are not saying."

"I suppose it only fair to tell you. Shall we visit the tea house when we are finished?"

What could Lizzy possibly mean by that?

Lizzy directed the seamstress on a few small adjustments to make and a quarter of an hour later they were off to the tea house.

Scene 75: Family business

They said little on the walk to the tea house, but it was not an angry silence, more a contemplative one, with Lizzy doing most of the contemplation.

Lydia had never been in the local tea house. Would it be anything like the one in Kent? Had Lizzy grown to be above such quaint surroundings?

Lizzy asked the serving girl for a private room and they were immediately shown to what must have been the nicest room in the tea house. White trim against pale blue walls, with crisp eyelet curtains in a sunny window made the small room feel cool and welcoming. An assortment of tea cups sat on a tiny shelf that lined each wall of the room near the ceiling.

"This will do and a full assortment of refreshments." Lizzy sat down as the serving girl curtsied and drew the curtain across the doorway.

They stared at each other, more awkward than they had been for their entire reunion. The silence grew from itchy to suffocating.

"Has something happened to our sisters?"

Lizzy looked away, blinking rapidly. Whatever had the power to discompose her so?

"I will by no means try to tell you what you should do for your wedding, but you should know Mama and Papa did not attend mine. Mr. Darcy offered for Jane and I to stand up together, but she was unwilling to do so without their presence. She and Mr. Bingley did attend though Aunt Gardiner was not very pleased with her deportment."

"Jane's? I've never heard anyone displeased with her before." Lydia rolled her eyes.

Lizzy probably would not like the sarcasm she failed to moderate in her tone.

Lizzy bit her lips. "I have no wish to color your opinion of her…"

"You two have had a falling out? I cannot say I am surprised. Everyone goes on and on about how good and lovely and wonderful she is, but that is only true when she is the center of attention. When she is not…" Lydia shrugged and looked away.

"I remember you had disagreements with her. I used to blame you for that, but I have found that perhaps I was biased in my opinions. I should have—"

"Please, let us not go to the past, Lizzy. I…I do not like to dwell upon what was. I have so many regrets. It is all too much sometimes. I would like very much to only look ahead, not behind."

"I think that very wise. I find I must often do the same."

The curtain rustled and the serving girl sidled in with their tea, set it on the table and disappeared as quickly as she came.

Lizzy served tea for them both. "Kitty has been staying with Jane. Mama insisted that her prospects would be far better in London than in Kent."

"Have they been?"

"I hardly know. The letters from Jane and Kitty are pretty, and proper and very vague. I do not know what to make of them. They seem content enough, but little changed from when we last saw them."

Lydia shivered. "I think then, I shall not ask Kitty to stand up with me. I know she will be disappointed but…"

"I do not fault you at all. Do you wish our parents—"

"If they did not attend your wedding, I think it best they do not come here either. Papa was…" Lydia's throat clamped down, bile burning the back of her tongue.

Lizzy took her hand. "You need not say. I completely understand."

"I am glad you will be here though. Do you think Mr. Darcy might be willing to walk me down the aisle?"

One rarely surprised Lizzy, but it was a delight when it happened.

"I…I think he should be very pleased to do so."

"I owe you and Mr. Darcy so much."

"Let that go, too. You have repaid us with your improvement, and your very sensible match with Mr. Amberson. I am only sorry I did not have more faith in you to do it."

"I am not sure I had very much faith in myself either. Truly, I am not certain how I got to this place."

Lizzy laughed softly. "That only convinces me all the more of the reality of your maturity. I am glad you will be within such an easy distance of Pemberley and that Georgiana's lessons will often put us in company of one another."

"Do you think Miss Darcy will—"

"She is very shy like her brother, but once you become acquainted, I think you will be very good friends. You have a great deal in common."

Lydia flushed.

"That is not what I meant. Quite the opposite in fact. I like to think that you and I shall be great friends now that things are so very different."

"You mean I am so different."

"I mean both of us. Away from Papa, the world is a different place. A much better place than either one of us might have believed."


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37 **

The school was a'twitter with preparations for two weddings. In just two days, Annabelle would stand up with Lydia and Lizzy would host a wedding breakfast at Sir Anthony's townhouse for them. The following week, Juliana would stand up with Annabelle and Mrs. Drummond would host a wedding breakfast for Annabelle.

Though Mrs. Drummond declared publicly and privately how much she would miss Annabelle, Lydia and Juliana, she was a practical woman. Their successful launches from her school were the best possible testament to the efficacy of her establishment, one that now had four openings for new students. She sent many letters to spread the good news.

Visitors, both wedding guests and the guardians of prospective students, sent word of their impending visits. A new one seemed to arrive every day. Naturally that meant every inch of the school had to be scoured and polished to welcome callers.

Annabelle rubbed sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "What a fine way to send us off, setting us to the most disagreeable tasks possible! Cleaning and polishing the fireplaces? That used to be reserved for punishment. Why it falls to us when we have shown her to her best advantage…" She scoured the andiron, muttering under her breath.

"It is a distraction—perhaps not a pleasing one, but distracting nonetheless—from all that we have to be anxious about. Everything is about to change in just a very short time, just as surely as it changed when we came here." Juliana leaned against the wall and panted.

"At least we are nearing the end of the task. Just two more bedrooms and we can hope to never be required to never clean another. Though I think I should be much kinder to any maid-of-all-work who cleans my fireplaces. She should have tea and biscuits at the end of it I think." Lydia draped a cleaning cloth over her arm. "Annabelle, help me move this dresser out of the way. I cannot properly reach with it there."

"I can help you with that," Juliana said.

"No," Annabelle shouldered her aside. "This is difficult enough for you. I fear it might be too much, and I do so want you to stand up with me. I do not want to take a chance that you will make yourself ill and not stand with me. Ready, Lydia?"

Lydia braced her shoulder against the dresser, and they slid it out of the way.

"What is this?" Juliana retrieved a piece of paper from the floor where the dresser had stood.

Annabelle peeked over her shoulder. "It is a letter. I think—yes, it is addressed to Amelia."

A little shiver slid down Lydia's spine, the one that always did when she thought about Amelia.

"Oh, gracious!" Juliana pressed the back of her wrist to her mouth.

"What?" Lydia hurried to stare over Juliana's other shoulder.

"Look here." Juliana pointed to a spot midway down the dusty, creased paper.

_Neither Papa nor Mama are impressed with the so-called accomplishments you have gained at your school. They are not inclined to sponsor your come-out anytime soon and perhaps not at all._

"She is not out? Did she not say she had been presented at court?" Lydia whispered, though she had not intended to say anything at all.

"You did not believe her, did you?" Annabelle sniffed. "I knew that story was rot, but I did expect that she was at the very least out."

"There's more…" Juliana pointed at another spot.

_I must be honest with you, sister; the last report from your headmistress was not well received. She is not impressed with your improvements at all and that sent Papa into high dudgeon. He did not know I was listening, I think, but I heard him telling Mama that he had no intention to continue any support if you were bent on continuing on your ruinous ways. He said he would give your headmistress leave to send you off as a servant before he would take you back unreformed. _

_If you were serious when you told me of the young man who wished to marry you, then I would say to you, do everything you can to further the alliance and do it soon. It would be good for you to be married, even to a plain man, very soon, before Papa loses all patience. Mama has quite given up hope and does not even argue in your favor anymore._

"So that's why Mrs. Drummond set her as a maid in Mrs. Harrow's house." Annabelle fell back against the wall and slid down to the floor.

Lydia and Juliana joined her there.

"I am ashamed to think how many of her stories I believed," Lydia said.

"I wonder if Joan knew." Juliana folded the letter along its previous creases.

"I doubt it. She among all of us believed the most in Amelia."

"How difficult it must have been for her, carrying those secrets and knowing how very dire her situation was." Juliana wiped her eyes.

"It was no more dire than the rest of us," Lydia whispered.

"She is right. Think about it. Until just recently you were set to be an apprentice with Mrs. Harrow. Lydia and I both were here only on the good graces and good reports of Mrs. Drummond. Had I utterly refused Sir Anthony, I would have been looking for a position myself."

"And Mr. Darcy only promised his support for two years. I think he would have continued that long, but after that… I do not think anyone in my family would have had me."

"Still though, I am sure Amelia made all this worse by keeping it to herself."

"She did." Lydia leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. "It is hard to improve if you do not admit you have something to improve and one cannot do that well whilst pretending to be the envy of everyone else."

"Perhaps Mrs. Drummond will allow us to go to her. We could tell her we know, encourage her—"

Annabelle and Lydia exchanged glances. Juliana really was far too sweet.

"You do not think it would be useful?"

"No. Would any of us have listened to such a speech when we arrived here?" Annabelle's lips wrinkled into a very characteristic frown.

"No, I suppose not. I just feel like we should help her somehow."

"The situation is of her own making."

"But it is kindness that changes the heart."

The old midwife had insisted on christening Juliana's son. It was as important for Juliana, who was not even awake to see it, as it was for the boy, she had said. She was right. Little had given Juliana as much peace as that and the boy's burial in the churchyard.

"Mrs. Harrow is very kind, and wise." Lydia swallowed hard. "Perhaps Mrs. Drummond believes that Mrs. Harrow will be able to reach Amelia when she could not."

Annabelle cocked her head and stared.

"Perhaps you are right. I had not thought of that. Yes, yes that sounds like just the thing Mrs. Drummond would arrange." Juliana sniffled and blotted her eyes with the edge of her apron. "Thank you;, that was exactly what I needed to hear."

Annabelle blinked rapidly. "Yes, it was."

On Saturday morning Lydia sat in the schoolroom for the last time, easel fixed with paper and paints ready. Sunrise dappled the back garden with light and color, and she had to capture it one final time.

"I will miss finding you here, painting and drawing," Mrs. Drummond said softly from the doorway.

"I will miss it, too. It is hard to believe that I will be leaving here. I think I will miss it more than I ever missed my father's house."

"I shall miss you, all of you, too." Mrs. Drummond entered, eyes bright. "I have something for you. I thought you should have a reminder of your time with us."

She handed Lydia a small band box, covered in a delicate patterned paper.

"Thank you." Lydia's hands trembled as she set down her paintbrush and took the box.

"Go on, open it."

She slid the lid open and gasped. "Mr. Birch! You found him in the garden?"

The little sailor was a bit weather-beaten and dusty, but still very much the same as when she first crafted him.

"I have known about him for quite some time. In fact, James—"

Lydia bushed at the mention of his name. She had only just reconciled herself to calling him that in the last few days. Oh, how his eyes shone when she did…

"He told me about it and his suspicions about your talents shortly after he encountered you in the garden that first time."

She probably should make a reply, but words remained stubbornly out of reach.

"I thought he was right then, and I am most certain of it now. Although you both made it most difficult for me in the process, I am pleased you will be his wife. I think you shall do very well together."

"Thank you."

"Is your painting nearly finished? It is almost time for you to dress."

"It is done, but it must dry. May I call upon you and pick it up during the week?"

"I think it would be very instructive to the girls to see how a proper lady is received here."

"Ever teaching, are you not?"

Mrs. Drummond shrugged. "Will you be traveling to Derbyshire with Sir Anthony?"

"Yes. He has gifted us with the use of his townhouse this week. After his and Annabelle's wedding, we shall travel with them to Derby. Lizzy has offered to arrange things for our arrival."

"Then it seems all is ready. Come, I will help you all to prepare."

Lydia flung her arms around Mrs. Drummond's waist, and buried her face in her shoulder. How could so much strength and wisdom be held in such a tiny frame?

"You already have, ma'am, you already have."


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38 **

"They are ready." Mrs. Drummond led Lizzy into their small room. "Her trunks have already been sent along."

"Lydia!" Lizzy picked her way through the crowded room and took Lydia's hands. "You are beautiful!"

"Is not her gown perfect?" Annabelle fluffed out the skirt.

"I think I shall have to ask you to design my next ball gown. Truly Lydia, this is stunning."

"Lydia designed mine as well." Annabelle twirled just fast enough to swirl her skirt around her.

"I told her she should not wear her wedding dress to stand up with me." Lydia crossed her arms over her chest.

"I see no reason why not. It is by far the prettiest dress I own. Why should I not wear it to stand up with you? Were you not going to wear your new gown to stand up with me?"

"That is different. That was the purpose of my gown from its inception."

"You look very lovely too, Miss Morley. Did Lydia have a hand in your dress as well?" Lizzy asked.

Juliana blushed and plucked at the bodice trim. "She did, madam."

"We pulled apart two of our older dresses and one of hers and with the three of us working together, we crafted this in just a few days. I must say, I am impressed with what we could do ourselves." Annabelle straightened the ribbon in the bow at Juliana's waist.

"I am truly impressed. You are all very skilled. Are you ready to go?"

Lydia gulped and wrung her hands. "I thought I was."

Lizzy touched her shoulder. "I know it is difficult to leave—once I was away from Papa's house, I was sorely tempted to try and return even though I could not be more pleased to be away."

"Truly?"

"Leaving is often difficult, and so is beginning, but they are both often very worthwhile." Lizzy stepped a little closer and played with a little curl dangling by Lydia's ear. "I found it so and I am certain you shall as well."

Lydia sniffled and nodded.

"Shall we?"

Mrs. Drummond led them out. Elizabeth followed and closed the door behind them.

Mr. Darcy waited for them with the coach. He handed them inside and climbed up onto the box with the driver.

Lydia giggled. Four ladies dressed for a wedding were too much company for him. But who could blame him? It was gracious for him to come for them himself.

Annabelle took one of her hands and Juliana the other. They looked at one another, but none of them had words.

"It is good of Mrs. Drummond to allow all her students to attend your wedding." Lizzy said.

"It is, but I am sure she also sees it as a way of reminding them all of what good can come from improving oneself." Annabelle smirked a little.

Lydia's cheeks grew hot. "It is difficult to believe she could consider mine an example to follow."

Lizzy looked at her with such a peculiar, misty-eyed look, but her eyes were smiling too, so she must not be displeased.

The coach rolled to a smooth stop before the church. Mr. and Mrs. Weatherby met them halfway to the door.

"The girls did such a lovely job decorating the chapel. Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Darcy." Mrs. Weatherby said.

"Lizzy?" Lydia stared at her, jaw dropped just a little.

"You know I cannot be idle. Besides, it seemed like Mrs. Drummond would welcome having her charges gainfully occupied and out of the house for a little while. Come and see." Lizzy linked arms with Lydia and escorted her into the little chapel.

A waft of fresh, sweet perfume greeted her first. The bowers of cut flowers became visible only after she stepped all the way in.

"So many blossoms!" Juliana peeked over her shoulder. "How did you come by them all?"

"Mr. Darcy finds them a very appropriate accessory for a wedding. Since your dress was already acquired…"

"He did this?" Lydia's eyes burned and the room went a bit blurry.

Lizzy squeezed her arm. "He is a very generous man, and it is his way of celebrating a sister he is pleased to claim."

Juliana pressed a handkerchief into Lydia's hand.

"We ought to take our places, come."

Mrs. Weatherby showed each of them to their places. Mr. Darcy joined her at the back of the chapel.

How fine he looked, so tall and somber. He was a very well-looking man. So was James, but in a very different sort of way. Where Mr. Darcy always seemed so well ordered and constrained, James was sharp awkward angles, tousled and rumpled around the edges. But their eyes shared a similar warmth and their voices both had a warm, fuzzy character that reached down to tickle the depths of her heart. They would do well as brothers.

No doubt Mr. Darcy agreed. Why else would that little half smile play at the corner of his lips?

"Thank you, sir, for everything. Without you, none of this would have been possible," she whispered without looking at him.

He nodded slowly, his eyes crinkling with a widening smile. "You are very welcome, sister."

How could one word have the power to shatter her composure so? But now was not the time.

He pressed a handkerchief into her hand. How many would she collect before the day was out? She might have to spend her first whole day as a married woman returning them to their owners. She giggled and dabbed her eyes.

From her place in the pews, Lizzy nodded at them, sharing a meaningful glance with Mr. Darcy. What must it be like to be married to a woman who missed nothing?

Mrs. Drummond, the teachers and the girls arrived, followed by Sir Anthony who was to stand up with James. So he must be at the church as well.

Lydia's heart fluttered. Not that she had had any doubt he would arrive, but still it was somehow soothing to know he was there.

Mr. Weatherby took his place at the front of the church and a wave of hushed whispers flowed across the assembly.

Mr. Darcy offered her his arm and James took his place at the front. He looked back at her and her knees melted.

Oh, the look in his eyes! She clung to Mr. Darcy's arm, staring hard to capture that gaze in her memory so she could transfer it to paper. That drawing would be for her alone.

Mr. Darcy held her steady until she regained her strength. He shortened his step to allow her to walk easily with him down the aisle of the church.

Lydia smiled at each of her friends as she passed. Only Joan turned aside, but the blush on her cheeks suggested more self-recrimination than ill-will, something far too familiar for Lydia to fault.

Annabelle and Juliana offered happy little squeaks as she passed and Mr. Darcy placed her hand in James's.

Mr. Weatherby began to speak. Good thing she well knew what he would say since she could make out none of the words he spoke now. She nodded and spoke where required. James did the same. The look on his face suggested he too was barely aware of the words surrounding them, but their hearts knew and that was all that mattered.

James slipped a ring on her finger, a beautiful filigreed band of gold and tiny pearls.

"It was my mother's," he whispered not looking at her.

She sniffled and blinked hard. He should have prepared her for that!

Mr. Weatherby joined their hands, slipping a handkerchief into Lydia's palm as he did so Great heavens!

"For as much as Lydia Bennet and James Amberson have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

"Amen," the congregation replied.

The rest of the service passed in a flash and what seemed like a moment later, Lizzy and Mr. Darcy escorted them to the waiting carriage.

"They will join us at the town house and all the well-wishing can take place much more comfortably there with breakfast." Lizzy arranged Lydia's skirts out of the way of the men's boots.

James slid his arm around Lydia and slid a little closer next to her. Lizzy's brows pulled together in a bit of a scowl, but Mr. Darcy slipped his arm around her shoulders and pressed closer to her.

Did his just wink at James? That was not possible, was it?

From the corner of her eye, she caught James winking. Gracious goodness! Were the two already on their way to being friends?

Given Mr. Darcy's connections with Mr. Bingley, it was clear he welcomed friends from spheres outside his own, so it was possible. She leaned into James' shoulder. Would today's surprises never cease?

Lizzy opened her reticule and removed several letters. "Here, these are from the family. Forgive me, but I took the liberty of reading the one from Papa and Mama. I know it was not proper of me at all, but I could not bear the possibility of him being cruel to you on your wedding day."

"And?"

"What she means to say is that _I_ read his letter." Mr. Darcy grumbled under his breath.

"I have given him the liberty of reading all of Papa's correspondence before I do and deciding if it is needful for me to read it as well."

Mr. Darcy's lip curled back as though someone made his tea with vinegar. "A great deal of it is not."

"And I am better by far for not having seen it. I hope you will forgive us taking that liberty for you as well." Lizzy bit her lip.

"I would suggest, Amberson, that you might consider taking such an approach yourself with dealing with Bennet. Lydia, you may well wish to ask him to read your father's letter first and convey to you the relevant messages from it."

"You would have me read my bride's post and decide if she needs to be bothered with it?"

"Only that which comes from her parents. Read this one letter and see if you agree with me."

"You have never met our father, James." Lizzy said very softly.

"Perhaps she is right, at least this once, I think I would like you to do that, if you are willing." Lydia handed him the unsealed letter.

James nodded and took it from her. He unfolded it, and she turned away slightly.

His face grew dark and his neck corded with tension. His left hand worked in and out of a fist. Slowly, carefully he refolded the letter and handed it back to Lizzy.

"He and your mother are…pleased at the news of your marriage."

"That is all he said?" Lydia asked.

"That is the only gainful thing said in that missive. I believe the Darcys have excellent advice in this matter. If you agree, my dear, I should like to follow that from this day forward."

Lizzy nodded vigorously. "Trust me, Lydia, it is truly for the best. Only for Papa's letters, to be sure, but it is best."

James squeezed Lydia's hand and looked at Darcy, brows drawn low over his eyes. "I believe you and I need to have a a talk before you leave for Derbyshire."

"I am at your disposal." Darcy nodded sharply.

"I will trust you then, all of you." Lydia glanced down at the other letters in her hands.

"Go ahead and read the others. I am sure Mary's letter will be very pleasing," Lizzy said.

"Shall I read it aloud?"

"I think that an excellent way to pass the time." Mr. Darcy settled back into the squabs.


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39 **

The wedding breakfast included many of Lydia's favorite foods. Her favorite flowers decorated the table, and the cake was all that she ever hoped it might be. Had Mama planned it, not nearly so many of her preferences would have been honored. Nothing about the morning hinted back to the reasonswhy she had never expected to be the center of such a celebration.

Lizzy's warm hospitality kept the guests lingering late, but Mrs. Drummond insisted that it was time for the girls to return to the school. Sir Anthony departed as well, leaving Lydia and James standing awkwardly in the vestibule with Lizzy and Mr. Darcy.

"Perhaps, this would be a good time for you gentlemen to have that discussion you mentioned earlier. I believe there is an excellent bottle of port waiting in the study for you, courtesy of Sir Anthony."

Darcy tipped his head toward James. "That, sir, I believe is a subtle hint that our presence is no longer required. I have learned it is not a suggestion that one should ignore."

"I shall defer to your wisdom, sir." James's eyes lingered on Lydia, though.

Butterflies filled her stomach and her cheeks heated.

Lizzy slipped her arm into Lydia's. "A sisterly chat before Mr. Darcy and I depart for Derbyshire?"

It was not a question, but she nodded as though she agreed because it seemed she should.

They climbed the stairs in perfect step.

"I thought you would prefer these rooms. I had them made up for you." Lizzy opened the door and warm sunlight poured out.

Bowls of flowers filled the spacious chamber with color and fragrance.

"They are beautiful. Everything has been beautiful. I cannot thank you enough. I never imagined…"

Lizzy entered and sat on the edge of the bed. "To be entirely truthful, I did not imagine it either. Perhaps that is why it was so very pleasing to be able to do it for you. Save Mary, I have had so little connection to our family since my marriage. It was as much for me that I did this as it was for you."

"Do you miss them? I know Papa…"

"Yes, I miss even him. I know it makes no sense at all, not even to me. It probably never will."

"Did you hope he would be pleased to hear of the success of Mr. Darcy's efforts on my behalf?"

"I am a fool, I know, but I did."

"I would have liked that too."

It would have been very gratifying, but Papa never did pay her much notice. Why should that change now?

Lydia sat beside Lizzy. "They are settled now in Derbyshire, are they not? At Matlock? Is that very far from Pemberley?"

"Not at all, especially by carriage. We could see Mama and Papa quite regularly."

"But you do not."

"No. Mr. Darcy does not permit Papa on Pemberley grounds and Mama will not come without him. When we visit Matlock, he is not permitted to come to the house. His patient prospers under his care, but the Earl is not like Lady Catherine."

"You suggest we follow your suit?"

"It is entirely up to you. You must make your own way."

"What of Jane and Kitty?"

Lizzy rose and leaned her cheek against the bedpost. "It is difficult to know what to say of them. Kitty has been with Jane for months now. But I do not think either very happy. It is more what is not said in their letters than what is."

"Jane is no longer the center of attention and she is unhappy with that, I suppose. Her new life must make many demands on her that she finds taxing."

"I think, perhaps, you knew her better than I. But enough of that. Is there anything you wish to ask me?"

Lydia laughed, but it had a bitter aftertaste. "I am not untouched, you know. And he…"

"I know. He was honest with us as to his past too. Still, you are not at all anxious?"

"I love him, but this is so different to…"

"It will be different, but remember what he has promised with that ring that you wear."

Lydia stared at the unexpected ring on her finger. His mother's ring. He thought enough of her to put his mother's ring on her hand.

Lizzy grasped Lydia's hands firmly. "It takes time to become accustomed to being loved ardently. Be patient and do not assume things are as they were in Papa's house. Know that you may speak with me about anything you wish, at any time. Darcy and I will be there to support you both. I think I hear the gentlemen on the stairs."

She kissed Lydia's forehead and slipped out the door.

Lydia clutched her hands tight in her lap. Thoughts and feelings swirled around her, threatening to overwhelm. If only they would slow down so she might catch them, recognize them for what they were.

But how?

She scanned the room. Someone had piled her trunks neatly in the far corner.

She flung open the top most trunk. Her notebook and pencil case lay in the top tray. How soothing they were in her hands, just the weight of them.

Did Lizzy put the little table near the window just so she could draw there? It would be just like her.

She fell into the small chair and opened her notebook. The dusty, woody fragrance of the paper—better than any flower might impart—quieted her soul. Her pencil fit into her hand, an extension of her voice, more eloquent than words she might utter.

So many images floated in her mind, where to begin? Her pencil flew, roughing out faces, Lizzy's, Mr. Darcy's, Mrs. Drummond's, James's. That moment during the ceremony, the one she must not forget, took shape on the paper before her.

"So that was the look on my face," he whispered behind her. "I had little doubt you would put that to paper."

She set her pencil down and turned.

He was so tall, all length and angles with a shock of hair that insisted on falling into his eyes. That was how he had always been and would never change. When she had first seen him though, he had not been handsome. When had that changed?

"I wish I had your skill, to allow you to see how you look to me." He laid a hand on her shoulder.

She rose and stood very close. "But you can, in a melody. You must write the song of our wedding."

He cradled her cheek in his hand and stroked it with his thumb. "I will, but do not be surprised if it is something that should be played in company."

She looked up at him and he slowly, tenderly removed a pin from her hair.

She gasped. How could he make such an action so incredibly intimate?

Long fingers plucked a single curl from its elaborate styling. He wound it around his fingers and brought it to his lips.

She swallowed hard, lips trembling.

He leaned close to her ear and hummed. The music—or were those his fingertips—trailed along the nape of her neck, leaving heat and passion in their wake.

His cheek pressed closer, his lips near her ear, barely touching, but the song flowed on, surging with longing, but not lust, the sound of love.

Gentle fingers entwined with hers and led her to the fulfillment of both their desires.

Hours later, she lay nestled in his arms. He breathed deep and slow, slumbering. Though languid and satisfied, sleep eluded her. Being with him was nothing to what she had expected. Nothing could have prepared her to feel so …so…treasured, so complete.

He rolled to his side and tucked an arm around her waist. "What are you thinking about, Mrs. Amberson?"

Oh, how it tickled when he nuzzled her neck like that! She squirmed in his arms.

"I was wondering what you and Mr. Darcy spoke of."

"All matter of manly secrets, my dear. Apparently, you Bennet women require special care and handling. As the local expert on the art, he saw fit to impart his impressions upon me."

"And what did you learn from him?"

"That I am a very fortunate man and must remind you of that constantly for you have never been shown your true worth."

The words fell hard and heavy on her chest, so heavy she could not draw breath.

He sat up and pulled her up beside him. "I know your past, you know mine. Neither one of us wants to return, so let us promise to leave it behind. We will not be perfect, but let us make a pact to make entirely new mistakes, our own, not the ones of our ancestors or ones we have already made."

She stared at him, silhouetted in the moonlight. "I am not certain if that is brilliant or utterly daft."

"I am not sure myself, but promise me we shall find out together."

"We will."


End file.
